Like The Rifle: Act II
by Cakehole Cat
Summary: The story of two hunting families, The Winchesters & The Enfields, continues on the trail of a mystery illness, a strange house, and a demon.
1. Chapter 11: Ghosts

**Chapter 11: Ghosts**

Death rode into town in a trench-coat, with a red bandanna on his head. Rode on a thundering black trike with Harley handles – all angular metal and roaring engine, vibrating under his seat. He pulled up at the traffic lights, engine retracting its audible claws to a resentful growling purr, eager to scream again, with a haze of fumes wafting around him like gathering storm-clouds, where he sat.

He turned his smoked-glasses wearing head to look at the car next to him... where a small child sat, saucer-eyed, in the back seat. He gulped as Death turned blank, dark eyes on him – reached out, tentatively, and popped down the lock on his door.

A deep line formed, like microscopic geography, on Death's cheek as he cracked a wry, rugged smile. He gunned the accelerator in his fist, making the engine lurch threateningly, excitingly – and the little boy smiled sheepishly across at him.

The child's mother, sitting in the driver's seat, blinked as she pulled out – for a second, she could've _sworn _the green light flickered black. Shaking herself, she turned on the radio as she took the turning for UMMS, and the spacey sound of a theremin playing, overlaid with bewitchingly slurred vocals, filtered out:

_They choose the path where no-one goes, They hold no quarter, They ask no quarter..._

'Luke, _will _you turn that _bloody _racket _off!!'_

'Racket?! It's _Zeppelin, _woman, it's practically culture!'

'Not at this time of the morning it isn't!'

Luke sighed disgustedly and poked the radio to a lower volume.

They were both getting tetchy, now, after a long sleepless night – and as usual, when he was hitting the Insomniac's Wall, he was feeling restless and fidgety. The very things which most annoyed Morgan when she was spacing out, too, and long overdue a bit of kip. Luke, in his hoodie and jeans, was stretched out on top of the covers of his bed, on his side, with one arm tucked under the pillow. He had cleaned Morgan's blood off his hands, now, so he fiddled with his pendant without worrying about getting it dirty. Blood-caked jewellery was _always_ a dead give-away when you were trying to blend in. Sighing, Luke lay on his back, stared at the ceiling, and then tossed himself onto his other side – facing Morgan's bed.

She was gathering the small sample of their dismantled guns, out for cleaning and now dried, back into their gun-cases. They were blocky rich-wooden things, the gun-cases – all of them, with brass hinges and chunky green-felt lined interiors, sectioned off into pieces (beside the guns) for cartridges and shells. She also rolled up their brushes – looking like miniature chimney-sweeps or bulrushes, bronze wire brush to take out swarf, metal rods clinking, faded old rag for wiping the oil, bla bla – all the mundane stuff. Morgan shook her head at Luke's fidgeting, but said nothing as she finished her task – getting her own bed ready to sleep in, or on.

She was almost done, sitting on Luke's side of her own bed, dropping loose cartridges into the space inside one of the cases, which lay at her feet, when a blip in the muted music made her look up, thinking the radio was picking up static. It wasn't.

Standing on the other side of Luke's bed, regarding him, and her, in silence, was her dad. Long, thick, wild black hair, with wings of grey, just as she remembered it, black eyes – wide set, like hers – gazing out from under that thunderous brow. Wearing that old, dark-green, chamois-leather coat of his, the suede smooth one, which looked black at night, it was lined with plaid and guns, inside (she knew). She knew what the smell would be, even as it wafted to her – gunpowder, musk, suede, beer – and wished that he'd open his throat, let her hear that comforting rumble of a voice. Guiding her back to childhood with the swiftness of a missile. But he didn't. He never did. He just looked at her, so urgently. Trapped, she'd always thought. Just a tiny smile, maybe a nod of the head, and it would've been wonderful. But no. He was larger than life, and for good reason.

'Luke,' Morgan croaked out. 'Tell him to go away, Luke.'

'Go away, Luke,' he muttered, half in his sleep.

Malachi Enfield had never been one for orders. So Morgan curled a fist around the first thing which came to hand – which happened to be a knife – and hurled it across the room. It didn't hit Mal – it went straight through him, hit the wall behind where it shuddered to a halt. With no effect, until– Luke snorted awake, throwing up his hands over his head, and the ghost flickered, and vanished.

'Alright, alright!' Luke cried, at the knife which had just gone winging past. 'I'll turn it off! Jesus...'

He poked the radio into silence and curled back up into sleep, muttering about overkill with his back turned on her – utterly unaware that Morgan could've hugged him for it. Which was a lot, coming from her. As Luke started to gently snore, Morgan heard a crackle at her feet. When she looked down, all the thousands upon thousands of little hairs - which made up the green felt of the gun case - were standing on end. Morgan kicked it shut.

Several hours later, it was mid-afternoon, and Dean – having caught a well-deserved five – woke up with a long, languid grunt and rolled onto his back, stretching out with a smile in his no-longer-sleep. The rustle of papers nearby alerted him to the fact that Sammy, too, was awake, and Dean cracked open an eye to find him standing near the table, rearranging stuff. He was wearing a different set of clothes to the ones he'd fallen asleep in (plaid shirt, jeans), and was trying to put the red-wax fruit back in the bowl – now emptied of water – without making a noise. Dean smothered a stealthy grin at the thought that he'd caught the sasquatch out, and he hadn't even had the skills to avoid waking him. Heheh.

Sammy was also laying out a set of clothes over the back of the chair Dean had himself been sitting in – suit pants, a shirt, jacket and tie – which was the cue for Dean to groan. Sam turned automatically at the noise (face carefully blank of his guilt, because of what he'd been doing moments before) and regarded him.

'Hey, time to go,' he said.

'"Hey" don't let _me _stop you – have a blast,' Dean said sleepily, and rolled over.

'Dean?'

'Wh-a-_at?_'

'We have to start work on this case, Dean.' Persistent, a little anxious, as usual.

'Why?' Dean asked, dreading the answer and feeling a minuscule tinge of guilt for making Sam worry.

A rustle of paper again. 'Because of this.'

Dean peeked over his shoulder to see Sam holding up a newspaper, halved and folded flat to one of the pages.

'It's in the paper, today's edition,' Sam elaborated. 'There's been another case of the mystery illness, and, get this – the kid hadn't been anywhere _near _animals. Says here he's allergic.'

'Whoop-de-friggin-doo,' Dean said, barely containing his enthusiasm. 'How does that help us, Sam?'

'Well, you know how I picked out this motel, right?'

'Yeah. Which is one of the reasons it sucks, by the way.'

Lips pursing in a semi-smile as he swung the paper round to read, again. 'Well, I made sure we were real close to UMMS – the University of Massachusetts Medical School?'

Dean grunted. Of course he did. He was Sam.

'Figures.' He muttered, getting up. 'Alright, Matlock, watcha wanna do?'

'I want you to go over there, and-'

'Wow, wow, back up. Why me?'

Sighing that martyr's sigh again, Sam explained. 'Because I kinda have a few cuts and bruises right now, Dean. People aren't gonna believe I'm from the Center for Disease Control if I look like I just went twelve rounds with a cement block. And besides...' Sam shifted uncomfortably '...my... my Jerry Kaplan ID has "Bikini Inspector" on it, remember?'

Dean sniggered. 'Oh, yeah, now I remember. Ha!'

Sam rolled his eyes, and threw the suit and tie at him across the room...

Dean didn't realize it, but on a deeper level he was still giddy to see Sam upright and walking, talking... okay, maybe less with the talking, but locomotion on a slit throat was a definite plus. Anyway, they had a juicy little case all lined up, now – no vamps to complicate things – and if this thing _still_ turned out to be a fuzzy problem, probably something good and big to waste at the end, too. Perfect. So he accepted the suit with pretty good grace, doubling over so he could take off his boots (still on) and go for a shower. Keeping an eye on him from across the room, as he scanned the newspaper article again, Sam was privately relieved that Dean was taking the upside to it all, not thinking about other children, in another hospital, in another time. Shtriga or no shtriga, apparently Dean could deal when it wasn't a _ghost _too.

'Alright, so, what am I doing?' Dean asked, getting off boot number one.

'You're finding the kid and interviewing him,' Sam said. 'And then I thought maybe we could go to check out that lone survivor, the old lady? Rowan Hemmingway?'

'Dude,' Dean stopped. 'Does that mean I gotta keep this friggin _suit on _all day?'

'No,' Sam said, eyes wide and innocent. 'No, it shouldn't take more than a coupla hours.'

'_Good_.' Dean grunted at his second boot, working it off his heel.

He gave their case some thought. 'Hey Sam?'

'Mmm?'

'I hate to be the buzz-kill, here, but aren't we overlooking something?'

'What?'

'How's about the contagious disease we're about to walk smack into the middle of?'

Sam beamed – he was about (Dean just _knew _it) to have one of his "hey, I'm a geek! Ask me how!!" moments.

'Way ahead of you,' Sam said, moving from the table (paper now tucked under his arm) to rummage in the duffel he had, laid out on his bed. After a second he drew out a pair of what looked like those little potpourri bags you sometimes found in the back of motel-room drawers.

'Gris-gris,' he explained. 'I took that old recipe Missouri used and added in some stuff, bound it all together with orris-root, so it's all locked in good.'

'Wow, Sam, I'm disappointed,' Dean said (Sam's face fell). 'You couldn'ta finished it off with a cute little ribbon?' He continued the teasing as he got to his feet. 'Huh? Maybe a bow?'

Sam huffed at him, caught out by the fun being poked at his geek skills.

'So what're _you_ gonna do?' Dean asked, obviously resenting being made to do all the work.

'Well, there's no point in me coming, I'm just gonna stay here-' Sam began.

'What, so you can get abducted again? Like hell you are!' Dean snorted. 'Sorry kiddo, I'm not lettin' you outta my sight.'

'Dude, that happened _one time_-'

'Two times.'

'_Two times.'_

'Exactly! Sorry, Sammy – you're just gonna have to ride shotgun on this one.'

And with that shot Sam a cocky smile, slamming the bathroom door behind himself, before he could snark back. Sam still sent a little secret return smile at Dean's retreating back, though.

Yeah. Big bro was alright...

Luke awoke with the plan in his head as if he'd been thinking of it the whole time he was out.

He stretched out on his bed, back arching like a cat, and then threw himself upright with enthusiasm, bouncing to the foot of it and looking about for his trainers. When he glanced across, Morgan was lying on her front, asleep. One leg crooked up, mirroring the arms she had holding the pillow – which was folded in half, under her head, where she had punched it into place. There was a distracted little frown on her face, and Luke always thought she looked annoyed with herself for having fallen asleep, as if the inner-morgan-logue was muttering: "bloody sleep... what do I need sleep for? Waste of time... why am I asleep? I could be up, doing things... stupid body..." Ha.

He had decided to do the conscientious thing, and go to see what state Morgy had left her visit-ees in, last night. Absurd as it may have seemed to _her_, some people could get shaken up by little things like having random women pop up in their homes, shoot some people who refuse to act accordingly and then swan off again into the night. Morgan never really stopped to think of The People, in all this – which was invariably where _he _came in, smoothing out the bumps, unruffling the feathers, pretending the gunshots were a car backfiring. So Luke had made up his mind to go to – where had she ended up? Oh yeah, Hardwick – to check that last night's innocent standers by hadn't been Morganed.

Oh, the things he did for the dear sister. Really, if there was any justice in the world, he should've been a saint by now, if only those pesky people in Rome could forget about that unfortunate incident with the nuns, bless them...

Five minutes later, Luke emerged from his room – in a change of clothes, now wearing t-shirt and sleeves - closed the door on Morgan, and turned around to bump smack into Sam & Dean, one of whom was all dressed up.

Luke whistled. 'Christ, Dean – who died? Your tailor?'

'I wish.'

The two men acknowledged him with a nod.

'Hey.'

'Hey.'

'Where y'off to?' Luke asked chattily.

'The Hospital.'

'Oh, sorry.'

'Don't be, we're working our case.'

'Ah right.'

'Did you read about it in the paper?' Sam asked, as they turned towards the cars. 'This random unexplained illness going around?'

'O-hhh aye, yeah,' Luke said, eyes clouding as he recalled it. 'Yeah, me and Morg were going to look into that.'

At the mention of Morgan, Dean glanced over his shoulder to see if she was coming out, always ready for a glimpse of hot-chick.

'Speaking of, where is she?'

'Snoring her fat face off,' Luke answered, without a hint of hesitation or malice.

Disappointed at the dashed chances of showing off the impala in all her full-on sunlit glory, Dean changed the subject.

'So where're you headed?'

'Hardwick.'

'_Hardwick?' _Sam said in surprise.

'Yeah, why?'

'Well, that's where _we're _going, right after. We've gotta interview someone there.'

'Oh aye?'

'Yeah.' Sam shot a questioning glance Dean's way (and, when Dean tilted his head). 'Wanna hitch a ride?'

'Oh, yeah, t'riffic!' Luke said, beaming. 'Thanks lads. Hey, you don't mind if we stop off for lunch somewhere, in the process, do you? I'm wasting away here!'

'See that Sam?' Dean said, as he dropped from the sidewalk. 'This guy's got his priorities straight.'

Time-table agreed upon, the three hunters clambered into the impala with a screech of hinges, like a fanfare. Dean driving, Sam shotgun, Luke sprawled in the backseat as if it was a park-bench and he a gentleman of leisure. Dean flipped on the radio, and they must've been running a Zeppelin marathon, or something, cause Trampled Underfoot was playing:

"_Greased and slicked down fine, groovy leather trim_

_I like the way you hold the road, mama it ain't no sin_"

Dean grinned, drumming on the wheel to it. It was like the impala knew he'd been thinking about her. He squinted in the sunlight as they backed out of their parking-spot, the sun flashing over the impala's gleaming roof, and pulled out onto the road: and damnit if they weren't the hottest thing on it...

A few minutes later, they pulled into the vast parking-lot of the hospital, or research center, or whatever the friggin' hell it was signposted as. Dean spent several minutes scowling at an evil system which forced him to slow his baby to a crawl, winding through the knots of traffic inside before they could find a space. Embarrassed by his brother's incessant grumbling and unusual method of beating traffic ("hey, buddy?! Remove head from sphincter, _then_ drive! Asshole...") Sam was surprised to see (when he checked the rear-view) that Luke was clapping, convulsed with silent glee, his head thrown back. By the time they'd found a space, Luke was chiming in with enthusiastic hand-gestures, and fervent cries of "yeah, and yo momma!" etc., before Dean realized he was being made fun of.

They finally swung into a space and Dean bounced out of his seat, on the left, straightening his jacket with a bad-tempered hunch of the shoulders.

'How do I look?' he asked.

'Like the defendant,' Luke replied, before Sammy could fit polite enough words around his impressions.

'What he said.'

'Perfect!' he barked, span on his heel and strode off to the nearest entrance like a caveman with a grievance.

'Hey Sam?' Luke said, watching him leave with his arms folded relaxedly on the back of the seat. 'I'm just taking a wild guess, here, but is Dean not a morning person?'

'It's afternoon,' Sam pointed out, gazing round the sunlit parking lot.

'You know what I mean, though – not good when he's just woken up?'

'Y-eah, he gets... cranky.'

'Ha! Now who does that remind me of,' Luke wondered sarcastically aloud, thinking of his sister.

Sam looked around as Luke's hand grazed his shoulder, thinking he was being tapped on it, but in fact Luke was doubled over the back of the seat, poking at the radio.

'Uh, dude, you might wanna leave that,' he said, watching him gingerly and not quite managing to relay in his voice exactly how close to suicide their new companion was now coming. 'Dean's a little... protective of his car.'

'D'worry about it, mun,' said Luke, casually disregarded his warning in British slang he couldn't fathom. 'I just want to see if they're still playin' Zeppelin.'

He was one of those people who flick through ninety channels in a second, snorting loudly and dismissing each in turn before he'd barely heard them, and Sam lost interest as he did so. Hey, it was his funeral – at least Dean was dressed appropriately. Luke span through several stations, snatches of everything reaching them – a woman asking "how ripe _does _a pineapple need to be before it bounces?" as if this was the key to the universe, what sounded like a Christian worship programme, and finally, the local news. Luke poked it off, sighed theatrically and slumped back into his back-seat like a bored child. Now who did that remind Sam of...?

'Hey Sam,' he said suddenly, 'has Dean got any tapes?'

'Uh, yes, and he also has a really big gun.'

'Ah, right. Point taken.'

Sam wondered whether Dean was getting the kind of intel they needed (really, he preferred to be there himself, working out the puzzle too). He was sure Dean would forget something. He also wondered how long it would take him, once he got back, to bring up the subject of bed-wetting. Sam sighed. How to get him back, that was the question – if Dean was in a good mood, he was fair game – but, damn, he'd long ago used up all his best pranks. If only he could- Sam had a sudden thought, and twisted round in his seat to look at Luke with an impish smile growing on his face.

'Hey-'

'What?' Luke asked.

'Luke, would you mind... helping me with something?'

'Fire away, mate.'

The receptionist was a woman, in her early twenties, named Tobey ("gosh, no way, that was my sister's name! But she, uh... sadly, she died when I was little, so... I've always felt this real _connection_ with women, y'know?" - this last said with that far-away, wounded-philosopher look in his eyes). No, she hadn't had any work done - "seriously? You're kidding, right?"- yes, her hair really was naturally this color. Too easy.

So only a few minutes after he'd left the impala, one Mr. J. Vaughan strode jauntily from the information desk, with more than just directions in hand, glancing back to catch sight of her checking out his ass. Hah.

When he finally reached the pediatrics ward, and the right room, he found it was empty of children, and taped off. So he stopped a passing intern – African, stunning, lilac eyes, long thin dreads tied back in a bun – with a smile, and asked where he could find them. Apparently they'd been moved while the ward was cleaned out, just in case (she told him) because of the new patient. He asked where they, and he, had been moved, she told him, and Dean continued with his quest.

Damn, this place was like a maze. He hated getting stuck in hospitals – too many bad memories, for starters – because he could never shake off the feeling that the longer he walked, the further away he was getting from a fast exit. He also couldn't help wondering, with a hunter's cynical eye, whether there was a reaper, stalking around right under his nose. Creepy-ass things. As it happened, Dean's quest was in vain. By the time he reached the right place – it was too late.

He bumped into a doctor, emerging from _his _destination with a somber look on his face, turning to regard the patient he'd just left, through the glass.

Dean introduced himself ('Dr. James Vaughan, Center for Disease Control & Prevention"), shaking hands, but couldn't help his eyes from being drawn to the room beyond the window. Inside, a woman was weeping at a little boy's bedside, as all the people around her unhooked the monitors, the IV, put away the paddles. Holy crap, the little boy! What was visible of his face, his hands and little pigeon chest, looked blackened and charred, as if badly burned. The eyes Dean saw, staring desperately at the ceiling (before one of the nurses closed them) were bright, ruby red. What the hell?

Dean felt an unpleasant clenching in his chest, leaping in time as if memory had reached a giant hand down the hall and jerked him back there – to the last time he'd seen this little horror being played out. Time of death, 10:41am, a split-second which seemed to last forever, as he willed it, with every fiber of his body, not pass – and suddenly, there they were standing. Entirely alone, for the first time. Orphans. Dean had to struggle to keep his composure as one of the nurses, turning sadly to the window – sharing a glance with the doctor – shut the blinds.

'How did he die?' Dean managed to choke out, in something resembling his normal voice.

'Multiple organ failure,' the doctor standing beside him said, sadly. 'His heart-rate started to spike, after they brought him in, and we just- nothing we could do.'

'His skin-' Dean said, swallowing. 'What is that?'

The doctor sighed. 'We couldn't ascertain, as of yet, it's not a burn – his skin was fine when he came in. Then he started having trouble breathing, temperature rocketed, he had a break-out, until, finally...' He nodded, meaning the black skin.

'What could've caused that?' Dean asked.

'We won't know until we get the blood-work back... but, at least we can rule out chickenpox, now-'

'Why?'

'Well, you saw yourself – his hands? Palms and feet covered? That doesn't happen with chickenpox, which, besides, his records say he's already had. And it can't be measles, like we thought – because the conjunctivitis was too severe. Plus, the deterioration of the skin was too fast-'

'Alright, Doc, be honest,' Dean cut in, shrewdly, hands in the air. 'You think you have an idea what this is, don't ya?'

The doctor hesitated. 'Well, I don't want to cause a panic, if I'm wrong-'

'Off the record.'

He sighed. 'Well, if I didn't know better, I'd say it was-'

'...What?'

'Smallpox,' he burst, finally, making Dean's eyebrows shoot up in shock, freaked out. 'Yes, I know, I know. I... I could be wrong, I mean, we haven't managed to isolate a source, yet, and none of the victims of this thing seem to exhibit exactly the same symptoms. And, I mean, this boy's already been vaccinated – his mother informed us – so... if it is what I think it is, we might be dealing with a whole new strain...'

The man was clearly frightened, and, if Dean was honest, so was he. Freak medical stuff was out of their league – he hoped Sam had been right about this thing being their kinda weird.

'So far, we've only had one person recover from it,' the doctor was saying, half to himself. 'And she discharged herself. I wish we could get her back, do some more tests-'

Dean realized he must be talking about the old broad he and Sam were headed after. 'Hey,' he slapped the doctor on the arm. 'Maybe we'll be able to help y'out with that.'

'I hope so,' said the doctor. 'I really hope so. I think I'm gonna be seeing a lot more of you guys down here, soon.'

'Thanks for your time.' Dean nodded.

He tried to corner the mom, as she came out of the room, but took one look at her tear-streaked face, sobbing to the nurse who had her arm around her "he only had a fever! I only brought him in 'cause he had a fever!" being ushered elsewhere. Dean thought the better of it. He guessed he had the kinda info they needed – mystery illness was right, even the doctors were clueless. They had to get to this Hemmingway woman. Good mood vanishing fast, in favor of grim-faced determination, Dean turned on his heel and started back for the parking-lot...

Back in the impala, Sam was twisting round in his seat, eyebrows raised, jaw hanging, as Luke (sitting on the opposite side, behind him) was just finishing telling him the One About the Nuns, in a matter-of-fact voice, totally oblivious to Sam's amazement.

'So yeah, last thing I heard, Sister Emanuelle moved to Germany, and spends all her days wearing dungarees and black nail polish – and all _I _got for my troubles was a letter from the Pope sayin' if I ever choose to join the Catholic Church, I'll be automatically excommunicated! Can you believe that?!'

'No,' Sam said, with complete honesty. 'I can't.'

Who the hell _was_ this guy?

Before he could call Luke on his (what he suspected was, surely, his) bullcrap, though, Sam felt something clamp onto his shoulder, and jumped out of his skin. A little boy was standing by the door, a harrowing look of misery on his crying face, hand clinging onto Sam's collarbone with incredible, desperate urgency.

'You gotta stop it!' he choked out, sobbing. '_You gotta stop it!_'

'Wow, hey, hey – it's alright,' Sam said, instantly adopting his soft and mournful voice, engulfing the boy's tiny hand with his own, huge one. 'It's alright, what's wrong?' Behind him, Luke threw himself across the car, within reaching-distance, to see if he could help ("aye, what's up, little dude?") The boy couldn't answer, broke out sobbing again, heart-breaking little face crumpled up and blanching, slick with tears. He shook his head.

'I don't wanna go to Hell!' he whimpered, and that was when his hand broke away from Sam's shoulder, and both men gasped as the little kid's sobs echoed into silence as he vanished, in a flash of light.

There was stunned silence, in the car, until:

'A spirit!' They said, in unison, shaken up.

'Was it... was it warning us?' Sam asked, still staring frantically round the parking-lot in case there was some sign of its continued presence.

'B-_limey_...' Luke added, half to himself. 'Poor bugger!'

They got out...

When Dean reached the exit, the light above it flickered, and he spared it a frown in suspicion, and then hastily recovered with a weak smile in return of the receptionist's, as he left. When he reached the impala, looking up in surprise from his keys, it was to find Sam and Luke outside the front passenger-door. Sam was crouched on his haunches, touching the ground, and Luke was standing next to him, his hands on hips, shaking his head as he regarded the same spot.

'Hey,' Dean drew their attention to himself. 'Hey, Sam, it was a bust – the kid didn't make it-'

'I know,' Sam said, worriedly, getting to his feet. 'We saw him.'

'You _saw_ him?'

'Aye,' Luke said, nodding with hair swinging. 'Bloody spirit popped up on us, all urgent, like.'

Dean's eyebrows twitched, checking with Sam, in a glance, that this was true.

'Yeah. Dude, check out the o-zone,' Sam pointed out, and Dean sniffed. Oh, yeah, there it was – definitely a spirit.

'What'd it do?' he asked, worried for a second that Sam might've been attacked, even though he'd dragged him along for the ride.

'It spoke to us,' Sam said, shifting uneasily.

'What'd it say?'

'"You gotta stop it, you gotta stop it, I don't wanna go to hell".' Sam recited, seeing when Luke nodded his head that he'd gotten it right.

Dean sighed.

'Great,' he grunted as he opened his car-door. 'This just officially got weird.'

'Aye, but, nothin' we can do here,' Luke said out loud, voicing the thought which was making Sam shuffle his feet, reluctantly. 'We may as well leave. Can't get to the body, do a salt n' torch job, can we? They'll be takin' the poor sod for postmortem and all that.'

Sam swallowed and glanced uneasily at Luke. 'Yeah,' he murmured, huskily, and opened his door.

'Let's hit the road,' Dean announced, clambering behind the wheel, as Luke, (never one to be reserved when he could be wild) got in too – by pushing off the roof and swinging his legs inside.

'Hey,' Dean's angry voice filtered over the sound of the growling engine as they picked up their snail-crawl round the parking-lot. 'Who the hell's been messing with my radio?'

When he looked at his two passengers, they were both pointing at each other.


	2. Chapter 12: The Bitch's Back

**Chapter 12: The Bitch's Back**

The three men, in their car, had to pass the motel again as they took a main road, West, out of Worcester city, heading in a direction which would – after about ten, or fifteen minutes of Dean's style driving – land them in the village of Hardwick. As they passed The Rainbow, Luke spared a thought for his sister, still asleep (no sign of her out and about) and turned on his phone, just in case.

Inside, unawares, Morgan awoke with a sigh, and a warm, rushing yawn. Wiping the sleep from her eyes with an index finger, she pushed herself upright, off the pillows, and gazed blearily around. The digital clock on the nightstand read half past three, and Morgan tutted to herself as she realized she'd been out for a good six hours. Bugger, why had she stayed asleep so long? She could've been up, doing things. There was no sign of Luke, and he wasn't in the bathroom (she could tell from the eerie silence) which was a familiar but always disconcerting sensation, when finding herself alone.

The room was stuffy and dimly lit – the moth-eaten drapes on the two windows were drawn, tight shut – so she got up and flung them open, letting in some light and a pleasantly chill breeze from outside. Okay, so, what to do with her time until Luke came back? As ever, when not in the midst of or in search of, a hunt, she felt at a loss for what to do, already feeling the risk of cabin fever creeping up on her. All their guns were cleaned and dried, as were the machetes and knives, nothing to tidy about the Bronco that couldn't have been done more efficiently with a match.

Bugger.

So she did the usual OCD thing, and cleaned the room instead, turned down the beds, organized the clutter on the table, packed all the stuff they wouldn't immediately need away. Turned the radio on, turned it off again, sat down on the end of her bed with her leg jigging, looking for things to do. Shit, how the hell did normal people stand it? Everything but the chase was unbearable tedium to her. Alright, so, in the absence of field work, there was always training. Leaping agitatedly to her feet, Morgan strode out of the door to the Bronco, flipping open the deep boot, rummaging around in the bed for a while.

Eventually she got what she was looking for – a battered old darts-board, with deep dents in, broader and longer than any dart could make. She carted it back to their room, propped it up on the top of a the sink of the kitchen-ette part of their room and retreated to right the other end of the room, behind Luke's bed. Out came the little canvas roll of knives, kiddies toys compared to what she would've actually used – but she couldn't risk anything heavier in a room she'd already demolished the screen of.

Morgan hooked the roll onto her belt, plucked one up it and felt the weight of it in her hand, threw it up in the air in a flash of sunlight, and regarded her target critically. Nope. Too easy. She went in search. A minute later, she retook her place behind Luke's bed, this time blindfolded. She let herself fall still, listening to the breeze from the window which would let her get her bearings. In the empty room, a private little smirk curled up the corners of her mouth. Much more fun. Morgan took a breath, and threw, picked another, threw, again, again, again – span on her heel, head whipping round so she was throwing side-on, and was rewarded with the familiar plush thump of blade in cork. Every damn time.

She was so caught up, that when the door opened, unannounced (which Luke knew better than to do) she whirled around, eyes still cloaked in darkness, crouching, and – tossing it up in the air with flair – threw her last... and heard no impact noise. Frowning, Morgan slowly stood, easing a thumb underneath her home-made blindfold to see what the hell was happening.

'Oh! It's you,' she said, flushed with success and, now, embarrassment. 'Uh. Sorry. I was practising.'

He was standing calmly, just outside the open doorway, blade clutched by the hilt in between two slender fingers, his index and middle – always a canny man, one of the most powerful people she'd ever known, no flies on him. Had he not caught it, he'd have been the recipient of an in-the-field biopsy.

'Troying to kill me, Morgan?' He said, in that deep, melodious chortle of a voice, African accent, almost Jamaican-sounding at times, showing through in the slight rounding of his 'L's, almost Ws, and the softness of his 'T's. Always made her think of coconut, for some reason. 'This poots a real crimp in our relationship.'

'Aye,' Morgan admitted, with a hollow chuckle, replacing her blindfold so she could continue. 'Come on in, Lo.'

They sat in silence, but for the rumble of the engine, which was uncomfortably mimicking the growl in his stomach. Luke heaved a sigh, and tried to read the thoughts of those in front of him by staring at the backs of their heads – no such luck. Bugger. It always worked in the movies! Not that Luke could see it, properly, but Sam was hunched low in his seat, staring moodily out of the window. That effortless expression of self-reproach and resentment was etched onto his face, by the furrowed forehead, darkly rolling eyes staring through his bangs, clenching jaw. It didn't escape Dean's notice, of course.

'What's up, Sammy?' he said, affecting casualness as he turned wheel.

Sammy (and "Sammy" it always was, when he was in this kind of mood) remained silent for a long time – perhaps because Luke was there – gently rocked by the motion of the car, before muttering in the back of this throat.

'If I had just... woken you up sooner-'

Dean instantly rolled his eyes heavenwards, knowing where this was going.

'You're thinking about that kid?'

'...We should've been there-'

'Look, Sam,' Dean cut in, impatiently. 'Even if we did get there in time, we'd still have _no _clue how to save him. The only lead we had just flew out the window when this kid didn't go anywhere near animals, there's no way of knowing what killed him...' He tore his eyes from the road to stare at Sam's sulky profile. 'There's nothing you coulda done, so stop worrying about it. Okay...?'

Silence. Green eyes, darting to the road and back.

'_Okay...?_'

'Okay!' Sam burst, shrugging and sitting up higher in his seat.

'He's right y'know, Sam,' Luke piped up from the back seat. 'You saw the kiddie, went up in a puff of light, didn't 'e? So, he's not a vengeful spirit, didn't try to hurt us, did 'e? I bet we won't even _need _to salt n' torch. He's moved on, you should too. And you know what's a great thing to get you started?'

'What?' Sam asked (Dean was too busy staring, impressed, in his rear-view – glad to get backed up, for once).

'Give you a clue - starts with an 'F'.'

Both brothers' eyebrows shot up.

'...end in 'Ood'.' Luke finished, and both Winchesters – seeing an identical expression of caught-out relief on the others' face, cracked weak, fake smiles.

'Okay,' Dean coughed, looking around for somewhere to stop. 'I can take a hint. How's about this place?'

Luke, laughing at their reactions, turned to look out of the window, and his smile suddenly vanished. They had pulled up outside an old-fashioned diner, neon sign and clock on the roof, red and white striped awning, porcelain walls. _The Boulevard Diner._

'Oh, yeah,' he said, weakly, as Sam and Dean got out. 'Super...'

There was a, er, a woman richer in years than some, leaning on the counter, cheek in her hand, propped up on one elbow, swirling a little mixing-stick round her second coffee of the morning. Staring glassily into space – things were always slow on Mondays. She was well into her seventies, now, Flo – and still waitressing - still with the same ice-cream waves of a Marilyn Monroe haircut she'd had when she first set foot on the lino, age eighteen. Flo sighed, eyes wandering around, searching for something interesting or just different to alight upon. Oh boy, did they find it.

Flo straightened up, eyes still glazed but for a different reason, patting breathlessly at her hair, and called out to the other woman on staff – a slip of a thing, couldn't have been out of her teens.

'Elain,' she said, in a dreamy, far-away voice. 'Be a sweetie and put the jukebox on, wouldya, hun?'

'What for, Flo?'

'Oh... no reason,' she said, laughing girlishly. 'Make it number 18, though.'

'Why?'

'_For God's sake, Elain, just do it!_'

'Okay, okay! Geez...'

Elain flounced over to the ancient old machine, punching numbers resentfully. Bet this was gonna come out of her paycheck, too. Okay, so what was the song again? She pressed a button, and out it came. Okay, so – piano, some dude's hummy voice, droopy guitar, yeuch, some kind of old-folks stuff: '_Company, always on the run, destiny is a rising-_What the hell _is _this crap? She thought. Oh well, Flo was the boss.

Elain clattered on her heels back behind the counter with Flo, and suddenly stopped dead, and understood the 'why.'

There were three of them, walking the short distance from their big parked car, black monster thing. The lead one was tall, big shoulders, brown hair, green eyes, stubble, seriously good-looking – a classic. The next, towering over him – Byronic, darker, longer hair, beautiful eyes. The last - whew, the last – long wavy gold hair, staggeringly beautiful face. All packing muscle, if in different builds. Hands down, the best-looking set of men she'd seen, since... y-up, she thought, since about birth.

As Elain looked on, with a happy sigh, she couldn't help imagining herself in a Diet Coke add, slo-mo'd. Ding-ding, all aboard the bus to Happyville, ladies – and thanks to Flo, the big guitar kicked at _precisely_ the same moment Green-Eyes

_That's why they call me: Bad Company, and I can't deny..._

Elain opened her mouth-'It's okay, hun!' Said Flo, sweet as cyanide, pushing her aside. 'I got this one. Well, good Morning, young man! What can I get you?!'

Classic shot her a half-assed smile (he'd seen the younger thing disappearing) pointing as he turned to grab a booth.

'Hey. Can I get a coffee, black?' said Dean.

'Latte,' said Sam.

'OJ. With a straw,' said Luke.

Everyone looked at him.

'What? ...No straw?'

Dean didn't need to say "...huh" - his eyebrows said it for him – as he and Sam shared a glance with each other.

'He's from Britain,' Sammy explained.

'Someone had to be.'

'Oh, I'm so sorry,' Flo said sadly.

Luke, suitably chastised, hung his head in utterly-insincere sorrow.

_Thud. Thud. Thud-thud. Thud._

'What brings you here, Lo?' Morgan asked through her blindfold, using his presence as an excuse to practise throwing when distracted.

_Thud. Thud._

'I was just looking for Luke.'

_Thud._

'Oh right.'

_Thud. Thud._

'Is he here?'

_Thud. _

'No.'

_Thud. Thud._

'That's a pity,' Lo sighed. _Thud. _'Maybe I should leave him a message?'

'Fire away.'

_Thud._...

Hang on. She'd just thrown a knife, where was the sound of it hitting target? Morgan paused, her next already held up, by the blade, ready to let-fly. Still, silence.

'Lo-' she began, reaching for her blindfold. 'Did you see where-' Her breath was suddenly sucked from her as her feet _snapped _back, straight out from underneath her body – as suddenly as if a puppet-master had jerked on its invisible strings. Hard enough that her face hit the floor and she tasted blood. Though nothing was touching her, but she grunted as it hurled her into the wall, lights were blinking in the darkness of her sight, her head had connected. She was sliding up, feet leaving the floor, hitting the ceiling, invisibly dragged flat onto its surface, hair wrenched back until it made a ripping, zipping sound, like lightning striking.

'Lo!' Morgan barked, hoarsely. 'What the hell-'

'Shhhh, Morgan,' Lo ordered. 'Be quiet.'

'_Fck _off.'

Morgan tried to remove her blindfold, but... but she couldn't move. Her arms, her muscles – for all that she gritted her teeth, veins pumping in her neck, and hurled her every strength into them – could not budge an inch.

There was a silken sound, air whistling over a blade, and something thudded into the ceiling by her head, close enough for her to feel its slipstream singing like a tuning-fork in her ear. Another _whoomph-whoomph_ of hurtling blade. _Thud. _By her leg this time. _Whoomph. _Another, by her arm. She was still completely in the dark. Christ, this thing was just playing with her, making her flinch. Well fck that. To be levitating her, it had to be, what? Think, Morg. Okay – spirit, demon, poltergeist. Too young a building for poltergeist. Spirits... no, she'd had the radio on, no interference. So...

'Lo,' she snorted out, half-exhausted despite not having moved at all. 'Is there something else in here, besides us?'

'No,' Lo replied, simply. 'Only you and me, Morgan.'

'_Wrong_.'

Said a third voice.

One which rattled round the ribcage, felt in the heart and the gut before the ears could get to it – for a second Morgan thought her own heart had _stopped_. She listened with baited breaths, whimpering from shock in the back of her throat, stunned, ears yawning to take in as much as possible. But... he'd never spoken, never before-

There was a creak of floorboards, of shifting weight, it sounded like Lo was turning on the spot.

'Ohhhh,' he breathed.

Crooned, in fact.

'Oh-ho-ho,' he was laughing.

'_Please, please,'_ Morgan thought, frantically, thinking fast as her heart was hammering. '_Keep him distracted, for fck's sake, keep him distracted.'_

'You actually follow her around?' Lo was asking, delighted.

'_That's it, come on, da...'_

'Have ye had much luck, getting through? Oh dear – no, of course you hav-en't. In death as in life, eh Malachi?' Another deep, melodious chuckle. 'Oh, that is _tragic!_'

'I'll tell you what's tragic, _mate_,' Morgan spat. '_Choking to death on your fcking own balls_.'

The invisible bonds snapped, the knives thudded to the floor, even as Morgan hurtled down alongside them, hit the bed, hard, thrown sideways – but turned it into a roll, snatching up the blades, which shuddered in the carpet, as they bumped her falling limbs. She threw herself upright, in a crouch, blades held ready to bite, with a flick of the wrist she had severed the blindfold to see:

Nothing.

The room was empty.

Morgan leapt at the open door, just in time to hear a squeal of breaks as a car left the car-park. Not ready to give up, she jumped a step, on one foot, like a javelin-hurler, used the full breadth of her arm span to send that blade _belting _through the air. Morgan staggered forwards as she let fly, but had the satisfaction, as she righted herself, of watching it smash into one of the car windows, and lodge there – spiderweb cracks bursting into life like city blossom all around it.

Morgan ran to the Bronco, ready to give chase – but, when she patted herself down for the keys, she realised with a groan that Luke must've taken them. That _bloody boy! _Morgan howled in fury, spinning round and slamming her foot, high in the air, into the rear-end of the Bronco. It bounced and squeaked on its suspension, but didn't explode – which was what she really felt it ought to. Her foot was pounding, now, probably cut, inside her combats, but she didn't care. She still used it to kick the room-door, swinging in her way, aside, as she limped back, relishing the shooting agony because it fit with the rage.

When she managed to pull herself out of the red mist long enough for her eyes to adjust to the gloom, inside, Morgan stopped.

He was standing opposite the door – right in between the beds, where she had fallen. The look in his eyes, alone, stopped her dead. Blazing like fire, fervent as the reflection of a sunset in a nature-lover's eyes – admired, in all its might. That look she had striven for all her life, the tiny acknowledgement, a nod of the head, the silent "that's my girl" that made her push that extra inch, work that extra second. Show them what you've got, girl, because "them" might get back to "him". Not any more, though. Where had he been, when she needed him most? Dead. Death. The coward's way out. '_You were the strongest man I knew, all my life,'_ Morgan screamed in her head. '_But I got left behind. I did the brave thing. Where the hell were you?'_

So her fist clenched, until her nails bit into her own palm, on the last knife – as she hurled it through the air. Too hard, she overbalanced, fell to her knees – and all it did was thrum through him. One of these days- '_You're being irrational,'_ Morgan thought, tiny core of logic cutting through all the emotion. '_You're letting your rage rule you. Stop it. Rage is a tool, a weapon, not an arsenal. Don't become the monster you're supposed to be fighting. You use rage to conquer everything, instead of facing it, you're as much of a coward as he is.'_

Morgan heaved in breaths, fighting down her pulse, snorting at it, _willing_ it back into its cage.

When she next looked up, he had gone. Christ, one little gleam in the eye and she was wrecked. _Someone's bitch again,_ said a nasty little voice in her head. Hurtful, spiteful, but necessary, because it baited her, fueled the anger, a better defense than breaking down like some useless little damsel in distress. Shit, was she an Enfield or not?

Never again. Hadn't she sworn?

Hadn't she fucking _sworn?_

Dean Winchester was scared. Really scared.

He'd just disappeared into the bathroom for, like, five minutes, and when he came out, Sammy and Luke (oblivious to the waitress, who seemed to be falling _just _short of stretching out languidly across their table, with their serviettes in her teeth, trying to get their attention) were in the middle of a heated debate.

'Oh my God,' Sam was saying, snorting in disbelief. 'I cannot believe you thought Raskolnikov wasn't redeemed-'

Luke cut in, scoffing. 'From what?! He didn't regret bumping off the pawnbroker, did he? How can you be redeemed if you don't care? It's attrition, not _contrition. _All that bloody _emo_, self-absorbed bollocks, Jesus, I just wanted to slap him, tell him to get a life.'

'But he repented!'

'Yeah, but not because he gave a toss! Just because he wanted out of that Siberian prison camp, and because he wanted to get in Sonya's pants. Oh – by the way, have you _ever_ met a hooker who's accepted Jesus as their personal saviour?'

'Actually... yeah.'

'I- oh...'

'She was crazy though.'

'A-_ha!_'

'Dude!' Dean cut in, managing to get a word in edge-wide. 'What the hell?'

Both froze, staring at him like stunned rabbits caught in the headlights. Sammy, who had his hands out – motioning them as he argued – for a moment looked as if he was about to ask Dean to back him up on his opinion...but then he remembered that Dean was... well... Dean, and gave up, frustrated.

'Sorry,' Luke apologised. 'We were just talking about Crime & Punishment, and how I reckon the only decent thing Raskolnikov did in it was bangin' this tasty ho.'

Sam threw up his hands, exasperated.

'Seriously,' Dean repeated. '_What the hell?_'

'Crime & Punishment, Dean,' Sam sighed, poking at the food on his plate. 'It's Dostoevsky.'

'Bless you.'

Sam rolled his eyes. 'He is – was – a Russian author, Dean.'

'Was he good?'

'No,' said Luke, before Sam could argue to the contrary.

'Dude-' Sam was actually pointing a finger at him. 'I- You- _No more pudding for you!_'

Luke had his hands up, defensively.

'Fine! I just don't think you can claim to get C'n'P until you've read it in the original Russian, s'all I'm saying.'

Even Sammy, the Geekmaster General, had no comeback for that.

'What do you think?' Luke asked Dean, clearly not in possession of all the facts.

'I think you're all a bunch of freaks.' Dean announced, to settle the matter – just putting his two cents out there – retaking his seat and shaking his head in disgrace, his opinion of Luke vastly lowered.

The threat of no more pudding for Luke was actually an effective one – in the half hour they'd been there, they'd watched him chow down through more crap than Dean could handle in a week, (which was saying something). He seemed to adhere strictly to the four food-groups – puffy, sweet, sticky, and gooey. Oh, and, what he couldn't turn into an innuendo wasn't worth mentioning – he could certainly make one of the word "innuendo". Food (they did an all-day breakfast, so Sam had pancakes) hovering on his fork, Sam shook his head and carried on eating. Dean, who was sitting next to him, back relaxed against the wall of their booth, carried on pushing through the contents of his cooked breakfast, chasing some ketchup round the plate with the end of a sausage, messy and disgusting in his fingers (so he could lick them clean). Tearing his eyes prudishly away from this spectacle, Sam swallowed his mouthful and looked at Luke again.

He found himself having to re-evaluate this guy.

'How can you _eat _all that?' He quizzed, nodding at the sundae Luke was digging into the depths of, a second glass (of soda so sugary it was a wonder he didn't have a hole burnt through him) standing by.

Luke looked up, unassumingly, as he was addressed, slurped off the last of the ice-cream from his spoon, and grinned.

'I've got to, mate.'

'What is it, like, a compulsion?' Sam asked, forehead wrinkling in pre-emptive sympathy (just in case) and distaste.

Dean looked up, chewing, in mild interest.

'Nah,' Luke gulped down again. 'I've got ADHD, caffeine and sugar help me focus.'

'ADHD?' Dean shot (Sam winced, sensing the danger of a mis-interpretation of that as "AIDs" in the works). 'What's that mean?' (Sam relaxed)

'Means I have trouble concentrating, paying attention, doing what I'm told, sitting still... Y'know. Means I'm impatient, clumsy, impulsive, take big risks? Talkative?' ('_no shit_' Dean muttered).

Luke concerned himself with the drippy dregs of his sundae, and they listened as he reeled off a list of symptoms, all of which sounded crippling. Dean found himself staring, lip curled up Elvis-style, in amazement. He felt sorry for his sister, too – he was phased-out enough by the prospect of Sam getting choked/kidnapped/attacked/whatever, what the hell must it be like to have a brother like _Luke?_

'You've got all that, and you're a _Hunter?' _Sam finally queried weakly, voicing Dean's thoughts.

'Yup!' Luke beamed, thoroughly pleased with himself.

'What've you got a _death_-wish?' Dean snorted.

'Yeah,' Luke sniggered. 'But I call her Morgan.'

They finished up, paid ('_Come again!!_' the young waitress cried from the behind the counter – a little too loud, as they left – and then flushed a deep red) – Luke insisted it was 'on me, lads' which earnt a smile from Dean – and left. Funny thing. Though he'd wolfed down everything they put in front of him, Luke complained loudly about the food all the way to the impala, said the prices were ridiculously pricey, altogether, and he didn't appreciate being shrieked at by the waitresses, either. The Winchester brothers shrugged at each other ('maybe they're more uptight about this stuff in Europe'), as they climbed back into driver & shotgun positions as Luke finished his rant:

'Aye, so, all in all, _I'm _never goin' back there, lads, and neither should you.'

'Okay!' Dean said finally. 'Dude, chill! Whaddya shoot your pizza delivery boy, or something?'

Luke tried to rearrange his face, realising he'd been laying it on too thick.

'I, er, no, I just don't like...' he fished for something to say about the diner, and caught sight of the geriatric waitress, waving at him through the window. '...old people?'

'Whatever...'

The impala pulled out of her space with a satisfied rumble.

'_Bugger_,' Luke thought. '_Morgy's better at this psychology bollocks than me...'_

He hoped they'd got the message, though.

They powered down the main road, past a cathedral and an open square, past the roads which lead to Elm Park and Pleasant Street (where, even now, Lo was clambering out of his chauffeur-driven car, minus one perfect window) and soon enough they were on the twisting, idyllically-hilly roads beyond the city, heading for the little village of Hardwick...

...Speaking of messages – across town, Morgan was trying exasperatedly to plug a text-message into her phone, scowling at the technology. Over distances under a mile, she preferred to shout. For some reason, it wasn't sending. Bugger, must've been the electrical interference residue, left behind by _his_ little visit. Bastard thing. She was trying to text Luke, to find out where he was. Miles away, as Luke bumped gently up and down with the impala's suspension, whizzing down the increasingly-deserted roads as Dean took advantage and stamped on the gas, he didn't notice that the screen of the phone, lying on in his pocket, was flickering with static...


	3. Chapter 13: O Brother

**Chapter 13: O Brother**

Sam couldn't help noticing, as all three of them talked, and as they sped along, that the conversation was persistently, mysteriously, steered in one particular direction – by Dean. He shook his head at his brother's shameless profile (a movement which passed Dean by). Luke had apparently noticed it, too, because whenever Sam spared a second to check, he was struggling to repress a smile, covering his hand with his mouth. Being deliberately obtuse, Luke started to pretend that Dean's totally-disinterested inquiries about Morgan were about himself, and pretended to be flattered, nay, even interested. Until: Dean, cottoning on after a long silence, said:

'Dude... are you gay?' Dean asked.

'Dude, are _you _asking?'

The impala swerved wildly, and Luke nearly wet himself laughing – even Sam cackled. As the big car renewed its grip on the road, as Dean did his hands on the wheel, Luke leant forwards and slapped him consolingly on the back.

'Sorry, mate, sorry – I'm just taking the piss.'

'Taking the- of _what?_'

'Oh...nothing...' Luke replied airily. 'And, hey, on a totally-unrelated subject, Morgan's 5' 10", she has size six feet – which is, what? 40s, over here? - size 40 C... something else, oh, and she loves Italian food.'

'Dude, I wasn't-' Dean was trying to look over his shoulder and at the road. 'I'm not-'

'Course not!' Luke cried, as if astounded by the very idea. 'I was just saying in case _Sam _wanted to know. Right Sam?'

'Yeah Dean,' Sam moved his hand from his mouth, nodding, deadpan. 'It's all on me.'

Dean scowled. Here was an unfamiliar feeling.

He was being ganged-up on.

Friggin' geeks...

Cathy was running, screaming, in her dreams. The freezing rain, slashing at her head in stinging tails of ice, she was stumbling, falling – not used to her skirts – her red cape was slapping in the wind.

Staying at home – off ill, after an horrific night of nightmares. First that one about the black-haired woman, so vivid, and then... the others... hammering like nails in her skull while she slept. As if some malevolent fungus in the ceiling were shooting down stalactites and pinning her helpless, aching head there, trapped in that bottomless cave where fear had freedom to rampage.

When she awoke from the latest, whimpering in her sleep and lashing out at what resolved itself into merely a tangle of blankets, the covers, binding her blindly thrashing limbs to the mattress... she found out she had been right. Something was reaching towards her from the ceiling, the white textured surface of it stretching and snapping out in the shape of hands, gnarled fingers. Hundreds upon thousands of them, covering the ceiling like bleached, dying seaweed the ocean floor, waving in a mass together. Anguished faces, blanketed, mouths and eyes and screams smothered in between, yawning, as if every soul in Hell were trying to break loose.

Cathy opened her mouth, and screamed, and sat up in bed – and woke up, and sat up in bed.

'Catherine!'Her grandma was barking, somewhere in the house.

No hands, no pleading, hateful faces – nothing coming after her. Cathy nearly collapsed, relieved, into tears. How could her heart be hurting this much, without bursting? She wished the black-haired woman were here. That was the only dream which had ended well, comfortingly – even if the black-haired woman had seemed to think she was stupid. Cathy shivered, and not just at the thought of people breaking in to watch her sleep. Why was she so cold? She gazed across her empty, cavernous room to see that the balcony door was open, frigid air seeping in through the white drapes which were fluttering slightly. She'd always loved her room before – so romantic, kind of gothic, even if she couldn't resist that muted pink wallpaper – but now?

Why on earth hadn't she closed them? Had... hadn't the black-haired woman-

'_Catherine!' _

Cathy jumped at her grandmother's repeated screech, swung herself hastily off her bunk and padded her room to close them – beyond the open window, she just had a glimpse of a big black car, on the opposite side of the garden fence, drawing down the road. Not one of the neighbor's – nobody drove cars like that around here. Her grandma was still calling, so she ran to the top of the stairs, hand on the wooden pillar there, where she knew the stairwell would carry her voice to the rest of the house.

'What is it, Grams?' she called, trying to break the rasp of slumber from her voice.

'I've made you dinner,' came the reply. 'Come down and get it, now!'

Echoing round the kitchen.

'_Oh my God, she is so unreasonable._' Sighing – she had thought it must be something urgent – Cathy retreated to her room and hastily pulled on her dressing-gown before dropping, in exhaustion – step by step – down the staircase.

'Just drop me off here, lads,' Luke said, smacking Dean lightly on the shoulder as signal.

'What, right here?asked Sammy (who was doing the navigating).

'Yup.'

'Why?' Dean asked, having registered Sam's surprise.

'This is the exact same address _we're_ headed for.'

'Oh.' Said Luke. 'That's-'

'...a co-incidence?' Dean hazarded.

All three men looked at each other, and spoke in unison: '_Nah...'_

'Luke,' Sammy twisted round in his seat, with a crackle of shifting map, sharing another glance with Dean as he went. 'What're _you_ doing here?'

'I'm-' Luke hesitated, suddenly acutely aware of how soppy his business was. It had to be two other hunters asking, didn't it? He cleared his throat. 'I'm here to check up on this girl Morgan... Morgan-ed, last night. One of the vampires ended up here, so she had to break in and kill the damn thing right in front of 'em, before it got her, so... I thought she might be shaken up, today. Thought I'd check it out...?'

Sam looked pleasantly surprised.

That was... actually, that was exactly what he'd have done.

'Seriously?'

'Aye,' Luke was actually blushing, rubbing awkwardly at his neck, underneath his hair.

A_-ha! _Sothat was how you could phase the guy.

'Why?' He asked, changing the subject. 'Fancie coming with?'

Sam looked to Dean, who shrugged.

'Uh, yeah okay, why not? We have to interview that old lady, anyways, so...'

'Huh,' Luke's mouth drew down at the corners. 'They must be related.'

After Sam had retrieved his Weekly World News badge from the glove-compartment, they clambered out of the impala. Dean had pulled up at the curb next to a gothic two-story fairytale of a place with pale blue wood, turrety-bits and pointed roofs. Out of the car, Luke paused – hands in jeans pockets – to look up at the house, and gave out a low whistle.

'Christ. What's the bet they've got grandma locked up in the attic?' he asked out loud, without thinking, and the boys laughed.

Dean was distracted, unusually, with locking up the impala – apparently convinced that the residents of this immaculate, affluent suburb would be so blown away by his baby they'd try to hotwire her the instant his back was turned. So Sam padded up, onto the porch, and knocked at the front door as the two others drew up behind him.

There was a knock at the door.

'Catherine, get that!' Grams barked, in the same split-second as it echoed round the hall.

Cathy, standing, barefoot in the stairwell, threw up her hands.

'I'm in my _dressing-gown_, Grams!'

'Oh, don't be foolish, girl, answer it – it'll probably be one of your _friends_, trying to find out where you were today.'

_'Great,'_ Cathy sighed. _'I gotta answer the door looking like this...'_

So she opened the door... and abruptly wished the ground would open up and swallow her. Three strange men, all of them really, really, really, ridiculously good-looking (the phrase popped into her head from somewhere) were standing on the porch, peering down at her.

_'Oh my God, I'm wearing my dressing-gown. Oh God, **why **am I wearing my dressing-gown?!'_ a tiny voice squeaked in her head.

The closest one, with the kind eyes, was peering furthest down at her 'cause he was tallest. None of them had far to look, though, Cathy was a beanstalk.

'_Oh, perfect, thanks brain_,' Cathy thought, mortified. '_You open the door, and all you can think of is "wow, look how my freaky height lets me blend in". Next chance I get, I'm having a biopsy!'_

The tall one was clearing his throat as she stared, retarded.

'Rowan Hemmingway?' he asked in a really soft voice, as vaguely-intimidating (because he was older) stubble-guy and vaguely-scary (because he looked like a rocker) blond-guy peered interestedly around his big shoulders.

'N-o,' Cathy managed to choke out. 'I'm Cath...erine. Catherine. Catherine – is my name. Cathy. Uh... Rowan's my grandma.'

'Okay, Cathy, can we talk to her?' he asked again, narrowing his eyes as if pained to be doing so.

'Uh-'

'_Catherine!'_ The shriek came again. '_Who is it?'_

'It's-' she started to shout back, but realised she didn't know. 'Uh-'

'_Catherine!'_

'My name's Sam,' he said hastily, sympathetically (knowing he had his S. Rambora ID with him). 'This is Luke, and-' Sam waved his hand at- 'James' -Dean.

'Jimmy,' Dean corrected him, with a tight little smile.

'We're reporters. May we come in?'

'C_ATHERINE!'_

'Oh- okay,' she stammered out, willing her clumsy limbs to – that's it, walk backwards so they don't have to push you out of the way to get in. 'Sure.'

'Huh!' Jimmy grunted as they hopped obligingly inside.

'Crikey!' Luke echoed him, in an undertone. 'Who needs a hat-rack, eh?'

He was referring to the broad antlers of the stag's head, a few feet away. It was in good company. The walls of the big, old-fashioned space were covered, entirely, in taxidermy – stuffed heads, of a bizarre mix and variety of creatures, laid out on chunky wooden plaques, studding every surface from floor to ceiling. You could barely tell what colour the wallpaper was. Glass cases with dioramas, table-top scenes, the works.

'Oh, er, yeah,' Cathy said, blushing. 'It's... uh, it's a little intense, right?'

Sam smiled, politely. 'Yeah. Is your grandma here, Cathy?' (as if he hadn't heard the Richter-scale skipping at the bellowing voice from the kitchen).

'Yeah. I'll... go. Get her.' Cathy stammered out, clattering away to the kitchen.

'Nice girl,' Luke said, once she was out of earshot. 'Shame about the speech-impediment.'

'G-argh!' Dean said, leaping out of the way – he had been trying to clean the sole of his boot and what he'd just discovered was an armadillo.

Sam tried to intervene-

'Wooow,' Luke was muttering, swinging his head from side to side, strangely, eyes focused on a Raccoon opposite him. 'Isn't it weird how the tail follows you around the room?'

'_Dude!_' Sam hissed at them both, willing them to remain focused.

'Don't look at me,' Luke said, as if butter wouldn't melt. 'I've got behavioural problems.'

'And a death-wish,' said Dean

'_And _a death-wish,' said Luke.

'What's _your_ excuse?' Sam queried at his brother.

'Watcha talking about? I'm a joy to be around!'

'Y-'

'A-_hem_.'

The three men spun around to find themselves under the scrutiny of a walking-stick wielding old battle-axe, her hair – iron-grey but for a black streak – done up in a loose bun, grinding her gums in disapproval. Luke was oddly reminded of a badger – or, no, since this was America, maybe that raccoon (he'd heard they could be annoying little buggers). Raccoon-woman took a forbidding step forwards on her walking stick (drawing their eyes to the big ugly ring she wore on one snarled old finger), down from what looked like a spacious kitchen, beyond, and stopped when she got close enough to peer, unnervingly, up into Dean's face.

'Who,' she croaked. 'Are _you?_'

Dean took a step back.

'Grams,' Cathy began. 'This is-'

'Don't interrupt, girl!' Her Grandmother snapped. 'These young men can speak for themselves!'

_'Yeah, we can,'_ Sam thought, peering at the back of Dean's silent head. '_Remember that, Dean? Speech? Open mouth, insert foot?_'

'James Vaughan, ma'am.' Dean finally said. 'Department for Disease Control & Prevention.'

He whipped out the badge, just to make it official – but had it snatched out of his hand by Raccoon-woman, who squinted suspiciously at it.

'_Good luck, old gel_,' Dean thought. She couldn't have ever seen a genuine one before.

He had guessed right – she gave it back, with some reluctance, and expression of great disappointment on her face, having lost the opportunity to screech about something new.

'I'm Sam Rambora,' Sam said, smoothing things over. 'I'm with the Telegram & Gazette.'

'Luke Ather, Weekly World News.'

'What do you want?' she asked, abruptly.

'Well, ma'am,' Dean began, launching into his smooth taking-care-of-business voice. 'I'm here to interview you about your recent illness. Sam's here to see if he can raise some awareness about it in the local press- am I right Sam?'

'You are, Jimmy.'

'A-nd Luke's here-'

'For any free food you might have,' Luke finished (she cut her eyes at him, sharply – the ridiculous hair was not helping things).

'Exactly.' Dean reiterated.

'Only joking.' Luke laughed. 'I'm here to generate some nation-wide interest interest in-'

'You!' She interrupted, pointing at him and Sam. 'Go and sit with Cathy. You!' She pointed at Dean (the only one in a suit) '-may speak with _me_.'

_'Yippee_,' Dean's face said, before he could stop it. 'Great.'

Raccoon-woman turned on the spot, as if this was a mammoth task, and waved her walking stick at him, almost whacking his calf (Dean reigned in his scowl).

'Come on!'

She shuffled off like leaving train, into the room next-door – the big, grand, dank old dining room – and Dean, having a carefully-blank once over of his companions before he was trapped, followed after. Which left Sam and Luke standing there, alone, with Cathy – who had her arms tightly crossed over her chest, as if to hide the fact that she was still in her night- and dressing-gown.

'Uh, can I just – can I just go upstairs, for five minutes?' she asked, desperately, flushing at having to speak to these two men alone.

'Sure,' Sam said, taken aback. 'Sure, yeah, whatever.'

'Thanks. Uh, the living-room's just - in there.'

Cathy waved an arm, nervously, at the door to their right, and Sam & Luke, nodding their thanks, went through it, to go and sit down. It was yet another big room, as old-fashioned as the hallway, dull greyish-blue, satin wallpaper, polished walnut furniture, fiddly silver photo-frames and porcelain ornaments. They took a seat on one of the sofas – one of those little, old-people ones: ridiculously low, tapestry covered, with arse-numbingly little padding – which lay opposite its twin, separated by a low, dark-wood coffee-table, inlaid with glass. The room had that old-woman smell, as Dean would've put it, like mothballs and moldy old ginger-cake. Fewer stuffed animals in here, too – just a domed glass case with some kind of heron in, in an owl perched up on the wall.

They listened to the sounds of Cathy banging up the staircase – Sam with his hands clasped together in front of him, Luke slumped out, hands in pockets, ankles crossed – and turned to each other.

'Coo, not short of a bob or two, are they?' Luke pointed out, gazing round at the faded grandeur that was.

'Huh?'

'They're quite well-off.'

'Oh, yeah. It's weird, actually,' Sam said, re-examining the room. 'This is a big house, if it's just the two of them.'

'Aye.'

Luke removed a hand from his pocket to scratch the side his nose, examining his toes, and sighed.

'Poor girl,' he muttered. 'Y'hear that stammer? Morgan must've pulled a big one, to mess her up this bad.'

'I'm sure she's fine,' Sam reassured him. 'I think she's just nervous of strangers, a little, that's all.'

'Yeah?'

'Yeah.'

_'Huh,'_ Sam thought, finding the opportunity to assuage someone else of their guilt strange.

'_Is this how Dean feels?'_ He wondered.

At that particular moment, Dean was feeling strangely suicidal.

'Yeah, uh-huh, uh-huh. Gosh. Uh-huh, yeah.'

He was back in high-school, stuck in those God-awful algebra classes, taught by an old Korean hag with as much hair on her moles as in her ears. ("_Whaat-you-geit?!_" snapped out, to verbally smack everyone awake. More like a nut-job's tick than an actual question) Stuck there, in class, because cutting too many drew unnecessary attention to himself, and them – which Dad was always keen to avoid. Zoning out, the blackboard blurring, while she droned on and incomprehensively on about angles and protractors and crap. The only equations _he _gave a crap about were the ones which ended in Boom.

Old-lady paused in mid-tirade to cast a beady eye over his bored expression, seated as he was at the darkly reflective dinner-table.

'Young man, are you getting this down?'

Dragging a polite smile onto his features, Dean dug in his inner pocket for a notepad and pencil, and started to mime taking notes – he was, actually, just not the kind any medical professional would find useful.

'Pay attention, now, this is important!'

'Yes ma'am.'

'And for goodness' sake, don't slouch! Why do young people _slouch_ all the time? Sit up straight!'

Dean sighed. 'Yes ma'am.'

They sat and waited for Cathy to come back down, Luke chewing on his lip... drumming on his thighs to a song he had stuck in his head, sucking in his breath in a whistle, making squelching noises with his mouth. He caught sight of Sam squinting sideways at him, through his fringe.

'What?'

'Nothing.'

'Hey!' Cathy reappeared, looking flushed and flustered. She was in jeans and a pink, frilly top (Luke could feel his inner Morgan rebelling, although she looked fit – 'going to be a looker when she's older' he thought). She plopped down, opposite them, on the sofa, staring from one to the other with a starry-eyed gaze.

Sam cleared his throat-'

'Oh!' Cathy's hands flew to her mouth. 'Would you- can I get you a drink, either of you? A soda?'

'Okay – thanks,' Sam shrugged.

'Tea?'

'That'd be great.'

'Got any pop?' Luke asked.

'Oh, er, yeah I... I'll just go check.'

She pattered her fingers nervously on the tapestried surface of her own sofa for a second, still drinking in the sight of them, and then seemed to come to herself and scurried away.

'She's edgy,' Luke whispered. 'Wonder why?'

Sam wasn't paying attention, he was staring past the coffee-table, and the other sofa, to a wooden sideboard, littered with old family photos. When Cathy came back – a glass of something acid in one hand, a cup and saucer in the other – Luke slid a couple of coasters (which lying in a pile nearby) onto the table and tapped beneath. She put his glass – filled right to the brim, she was being generous and erring on the side of impracticality – carefully down. When it came to Sammy's saucer, her hand trembled, and it skittered a little as she put it down. Sammy caught it, soon enough to prevent any spillage – but as he put it down... the clinking sound it made continued, though nothing was moving...

Both hunters looked at each other, eyebrows raised, as the knocking continued, sounding like it was coming from downstairs. Cathy settled into her seat, a surprisingly blank, oblivious expression of contentment on her face – as she dealt with her own teacup. It was impossible to tell if she could hear it or not – until the low, guttural moan echoed up to them, too. Muffled, indistinct, but definitely there. It sounded like a bear, or something – some huge creature shifting, grumbling, right underneath them. Cathy didn't react at all.

'Cathy?' Sam said, instantly – firm but persuasive. 'What was that?'

'What?'

'That sound,' this from Luke.

'Oh!' Cathy laughed, lightly. 'That! It's just the house, it's so old, it makes strange noises sometimes. Probably just the plumbing, or something!!'

'Have you got a pet dog?' Luke asked. He had thought he'd recognised the smell of one, back in the hallway – hard to distinguish, with all the stuffed-stuff.

Cathy looked up at this, and a pained look flitted across her face.

'No,' she said, tearing up, swallowing. 'No. We did have, until recently – Winston, his name was.'

She nodded at a photograph to her left, one of the ones Sam had been examining. It pictured her and a tall, dark-haired young man – older, maybe their age – standing either side of a huge, shaggy black dog, holding his collar, ruffling the fur on his chest.

'What happened?' Sam asked, gently.

Cathy swallowed. 'You won't believe,' she whispered.

Oh, that did it. Now they _had_ to ask...

Grandma Rowan was annoyed. None of the questions this young man from the health department place seemed to be asking made any sense. He'd started off with sensible enough ones, about what she thought had caused her illness – and she had given him several useful anecdotes about her recent life, which he had taken down with a thoughtful look on his face. But now he was asking all sort of ridiculous things.

'Does my _house _make strange _noises?'_ She repeated the latest in scorn, staring at him, confounded. 'It's _Victorian_.'

'So... that's a yes?'

'Yes!'

'Okay, great, thanks. What kinda noises?'

They listened to Cathy's story, about the night Winston had died, the blood, the shower, the horrible message on the wall. By the time she was done, Sammy and Luke were sitting either side of her, exchanging significant glances over her head and taking it in terms to hand her tissues from a frill-covered box of them they'd found.

'He- he was such a sweetie!' Cathy sobbed, blowing her nose, with a sound like a vocal goose farting, into the latest. 'I don't know why _anyone _would want to do that to any animal, let alone Winse!'

'That's horrible,' Sam comforted, in his deep, whispery, back-of-the-throat, I-feel-your-pain voice. 'I'm so sorry.'

'Aye,' Luke muttered. 'Shockin'...'

Dude, even if they weren't getting any leads on the illness thing, coming here had been worth it. From what Cathy had described to them, Sam thought, they had just landed smack in the middle of an urban legend – let alone all the poltergeist-sounding activity, knocking, scraping, EVP so strong you could actually hear it with the naked ear. On top of everything, when they asked about why the lights were turned off, Cathy explained that it was because they'd been having electrical problems. Were there cold spots anywhere in the house? Sam asked (cleverly covering for it by suggesting that maybe there was a draft or leak getting in somewhere, affecting the wiring). Oh, yes, all over – but what could you expect from such an old house?!

Sam and Luke rolled their eyes at each other, meaningfully. Geez.

'And of course,' Cathy, unaware of their unspoken conversation, was finishing with a sniff. 'Grams hasn't been able to deal with any of it.'

'Why?' Luke got in the question before Sam, eyebrows climbing, had a chance.

'Cause of Spencer.'

'Spencer?' Sam continued. 'Is that... the man in the photograph?' He swung around, long arms within range of the sideboard, and brought the picture round to lay in his big hand, where they could all see it.

'Yeah,' Cathy hiccuped. 'My brother. He's... he's been gone... oh, gosh, more than a year now. Anyway, Grams... she isn't dealing... ever since Spence died, it's like she can't stand to look at me, y'know...?'

_'Yeah... I do,' _Sam thought, with a jolt, surprising even himself with the thought, swallowing down and recovering his composure.

'_Yeah... I do,'_ thought Luke, and licked his lips, a tired, dead expression flitting into his face before he could combat it.

'...And she gets sad this time of year, now, 'cause that's when...'

Cathy trailed off, took the photograph from Sam, in her hands, and stared down at, smiling sadly.

'It was in November,' she said out loud. 'Kinda ruins Hallowe'en, Thanksgiving – a death in the family. Oh, brother... You kinda remind me of him,' (this directed at Sam, with a finally unselfconscious smile). 'Makes me miss him even more, when Grams gets how she does-'

But _how _Grams got, they never got to find out, because at that moment they head angry voices, echoing round the hall, and all three got to their feet to investigate. Grandma Rowan was hustling a harassed-looking Dean (v-ery slow-ly) across the floorboards, shaking her walking-stick at him, and Dean was trying to beat off her flying attacks, with an expression which suggested he was about one inch away from pulling out his piece and really giving her something to moan about.

'Dude! Will you-_Ow!_- Just-_OW!_ Stop for- _OW! _Five friggin- OW! _SECONDS!?_'

'Jimmy!' Sam half-yelled, before Dean lost his temper.

'What the hell's goin' on?' Luke chimed in.

'I don't know what sort of Department you come from, but it cannot be government-sanctioned!' The old lady was shrieking at him. 'Asking silly questions!'

'Like what?!' Dean yelled back – blind, as ever, to how weird a hunter's thought processes could seem to a normal person.

'Like 'have I seen any animals behaving strangely?'' she barked, rattling her walking-stick like a lyncher their torch and pitchfork. 'Just like all those _doctors. _Nonsense! I know what's wrong with my own body! You're one of these new-age tree-hugger types, aren't you?!'

Even smart-mouthed Dean's jaw dropped at that. Of all the vast and colorful variety of names he had ever been called (more than a few them from his own dear bro) "tree-hugger" had not been among them.

'Grams!' Cathy sighed, breaking the stunned silence and trying to lay a soothing hand on her shoulder. 'I'm sure they're just-'

'No! It's utterly unreasonable!' Grandma Rowan bellowed. 'I refuse to have this man in my house!'

Dean, still dazed and not a little pissed by the severity of her reaction to him (totally unjustified, of course) let his blameless eyes search out Sam – who was shaking his head at him, obviously convinced that he'd made some tasteless crack and set the old gel off. Blaming this particular hunter, as usual – nice, Sam. Geez. You nearly shoot _one _old person, _one _time, or, maybe, in a practical way, suggest that poking another one with a stick would get some answers outta the old broad, and suddenly you're a monster. Dude...

'Maybe you should go,' Cathy was suggesting, trying with some success to restrain her grandmother from braining Dean with the blunt end of her stick. 'Please?'

Not needing to be told twice, the three men beat a hasty retreat, the ancient, cracked old door swinging shut on the sound of the old woman's continued cries.

'Dude!' Sam turned to Dean, as soon as they were outside. 'What did you _do_?'

'Nothing!' Dean insisted. He avoided Sam's eyes, shaking his head as he thought back. He hadn't even _tried_ to be rude, it was a gift. 'Crazy bitch. I just started askin' about the local wildlife, you know, saw this photograph of this, friggin', huge dog, and-'

'Yes, Winston, the dog, we know,' Sam said, shaking his head, he walked off to the impala, distracted.

Luke, appearing as Sam vanished from in front of him, shrugged helplessly as Dean shot him an inquisitive look. They followed Sam to the impala, retaking their places in front and back seat as Sam took his. The sun was starting to dip in the sky, now, vanishing over the roofs of the houses, all large and _posh_, surrounding them in the suburbs, as the cold, brisk day wheeled itself into later afternoon.

'So, did _you _get anything?' Dean posed the question, kicking up the engine with a roar ('_tree hugger? Pff!_' he reassured himself).

Sam nodded. 'Yeah. I think there's a poltergeist or, at least, a spirit or something in that house, Dean.'

'You two clocked the sound-effects?'

'Yup.'

'Uh-huh. And from what I can tell,' Sam continued in his ominous, worried monotone. 'There's been a recent death, maybe in the house, definitely in the family. Right Luke?'

'Mmm?' Luke looked up, he had his phone in his lap, squeezing buttons. 'Ha. Here's another sign, boys – my phone's fcked, must be that electrical interference Cathy was talking about.'

Dean heaved a sigh, and they both looked at him.

'What?' Sam inquired, puppy eyes armed (or eyed) and ready in case he was about to be blamed.

'...We're gonna end up back here, aren't we?' Dean said, dejected.

'Uh, well, we should really check this place for EMF-'

'Sulfur scent?' Luke piped up.

'-Yeah, or-'

'Son-of-a-_bitch!_' Dean cried out. 'Man...I_ hate _old people...'

He took out his aggression on the road...

'So, did she tell you much about the disease?' Sam asked, as they powered out of little-ville.

'Not much. Can't figure out how she got through it. Stubbornness, maybe.'

Sam remained silent on that subject – Dean was one to talk.

'How hardcore was this disease?' Luke asked from the back.

'Pretty,' Sam answered, thinking of the little boy's spirit again.

'So, whaddya think,' Dean asked, squeezing the wheel, trying to shake himself into a state of concentration. 'Some kinda spell-work, keeping her alive?'

'May-be.' Sam tilted his head. 'Or – if she's been exposed and survived – maybe she's the _source_?'

'Who, grandma?!' Dean said, as if in incredulity. 'Why, she wouldn't hurt a fly!'


	4. Chapter 14: My Soul From Out That Shadow

**Chapter 14: My Soul From Out That Shadow**

Luke turned on his phone again as they drove back into Worcester – this time it was working.

Weird...

Meanwhile, back at the motel, Morgan was standing on one side of the reception desk, sighing as she handed note after note over to the landlady – who was considerably less friendly with Luke MIA, not there to charm her on Morgan's behalf. She was paying for the damage done to the screen in their room – which she had just finished tidying up, in her blitz of the place. Morgan winced as she watched the money in her wallet rapidly evaporating, knowing that Luke wouldn't have much in his, either. It seemed she would have to go out and so some more work, tonight, to pay for their room and food, and other such extreme luxuries, for the rest of the week.

A cloud of gloom seemed to settle over her as she left the smugly money-rippling lady behind, returning to her empty room, feeling acutely alienated. It was going to take a lot to lift her out of her black mood, they always came on at her time of the month. Luke was, God alone knew where, she had tried knocking on Sam & Dean's door, and had no reply. They were lying right under the noses of two hunters, who... who, she, well, she didn't want to have to hate. Living on a knife-edge, as ever, but seriously courting disaster, here. Whatever reason Luke had that made it so important for them to stay, she hoped it cleared itself up fast. She trusted him not to muck her around on the important things, like this, but it still would've been nice to relax. If only for a moment.

No such luck, she reckoned idly, turning the TV in her room back on, slumping into her bed.

Oh, how glamorous the life of a hunter was...

The impala tucked itself neatly into her spot as Dean crawled forwards, that feeling of satisfaction at the end of a completed journey – with no crashes, tickets or crazy chases – washing over him as he killed the engine.

'Dude,' Luke began, from the back-seat. 'Reckon that case of yours is looking even more interesting, lads.'

'Case of _ours_,' Sam said, over his shoulder. 'You and Morgan are involved with Cathy, right?'

'Aye,' Luke admitted, voice betraying none of his unease. 'Anywho, thanks for the lift.'

They were all getting out, ready to head in opposite directions once more, when Dean spoke:

'Hey-' (Luke turned around.) 'Uh... earlier, Morgan said that you guys were going out tonight.'

Luke nodded, beaming.

'Too right, gotta celebrate last night, nuking all the vampires and whatnot. It's practically tradition.'

'I like your style, man,' Dean said (to Sam's reserved chagrin). 'So, the invite still stands?'

'_Make friends,'_ Luke heard his sister's voice saying in his head.

'Aye, course. What time suits you?'

'Whenever. Sam?'

Sam sighed, not really the kind of guy who had nights-out like he suspected Luke did. The melancholy of thinking about that child, earlier, had settled on him again.

'Sure... Great...'

'Alrighty,' Luke nodded, flashing a quick horns-gesture across his chest. 'Nip down when you're ready.'

'Cool.'

'Alright. Laters.'

He hopped up onto the walkway, strolled down it, and played a jaunty little staccato of a knock on his door before disappearing through.

'Well, that was enlightening,' Sam said, once the sound of the door shutting had dissipated into the silence of encroaching evening.

'Yeah,' Dean was chewing his lip, gazing at the shut door.

Coming to himself, and checking that Sammy hadn't picked up on his day-dreaming with a flick of the eyes, Dean took a breath.

'Come on, Sparky.' He slapped Sam (also staring at their door) on the shoulder. 'Bet we got time to catch five before the fun begins.'

'Y'alright Morg?' Luke asked brightly as he fell into their haven. She sat up on her bed, arms drawn up around her knees. 'Anything happen while I was out?'

'Yeah,' she said. 'Lo dropped by.'

'Did he? Bugger! Haven't seen him in bloody ages, how's he doing?'

'He's... not himself.'

Luke, who was fiddling with his newly-fixed phone, looked up curiously through the strands of his straw blond hair.

'How d'you mean? What happened?'

Morgan lowered her eyes, pushed herself off the end of her bed.

'Nothing,' she muttered tersely, closed off. 'Nothing. We've run out of money though.'

'Have we? sht...' Luke replied, distracted from her closing up on him, though it didn't escape his notice.

'I think I'm going to have go on the hustle tonight.' Morgan sighed.

Which he knew she hated.

'Oh, that's alright,' Luke consoled her. 'We're going out with Sam and Dean tonight, remember?'

'Oh, yeah,' Morgan grimaced.

Which meant she'd be around hunters, wearing her hustling outfit, which always felt... like a betrayal of all the sensible clothes she could've been wearing instead. Always made her feel cheap and easy, the rub lying therein, in that that was exactly what she _needed _to look like to lure in the idiot poker-players and self-confessed pool geniuses. If only Luke had been any good at it – but she had yet to remember a single incident of Luke playing any game of chance which didn't end up in him being ganged up on and chased out of town, or worse.

So, to her it fell.

'D'worry, sis,' Luke said, dropping onto his own bed. 'We'll have fun, anyway, eh?'

A few hours later, the two sets of siblings were getting ready.

Luke was going rocky, as ever. Black shirt, showing up his light tan, gold hair, the greeny-blue eyes and white-white teeth. Sleeves rolled up to show his elephant-hairs and cuff-watch, tidy jeans, black converse (which he had a feeling he would soon loose, shoes never stayed on him for long).

Luke caught sight of Morgan looking at herself in the mirror. She was smoothing down the front of her dress, hands flat on her stomach, taking in a deep breath – her expression blank, mild, disinterested, although he knew better than to take hers at face-value. Nerves, that's what it was, nerves and self-consciousness. It staggered him that someone as good-looking as his elder sister could be so convinced of her own imperfection.

Morgy was easily one of, if not _the_ most beautiful woman he'd ever seen (and he'd seen a few) – but she had never thought of herself that way. Dresses and strappy shoes made her nervous (she wanted to wear shoes she could stamp in, damnit – which is what she was doing, that very moment, to wear them in). So did the of majority make-up (just a dust of smokey something-or-other, purple, over her eyes – making them pop and smoulder in her face). She never wore jewellery, because it got so easily caught in a fight. Now, all she wore was a charm anklet – protection, not decoration.

She'd never been girly-girl, not even...before – but he did have to hand it to her, the one look she could pull off, in anything, was sexy. Take what she was wearing now. A simple, classy, LBD. Knee-length skirts, kind of multiple shimmering, asymmetric layers. There a slit up her left leg, or rather a place where the folds of the skirts had an opening, so she cold run – and reach the Betty's black garter-band. The dress was one of her only ones, with loads of satiny straps down the front of the bodice, like the back of a corset. Morg had a way of not revealing much, but it always seemed to go a lot further than other women. No embellishment, nothing cheap done to draw attention to herself, but she looked... after the jeans, combats, guns, sweating... surprisingly womanly.

'Looking good,' Luke commented, off-hand, sizing himself up in the mirror.

Morgan's eyes flickered from her reflection to his, caught in the act, and she blinked.

'_You're_ not looking too bad either,' he finished, and her face relaxed into that withering, wry amusement as faked elbowing him in the stomach.

Dean and Sam were walking casually down the stairs, down from their room, heads dropped. Sam was in his denim shirt and that long-sleeved old hood-jacket he hadn't worn for more than a year. Kinda tight on the arms now. Freshly-washed hair springing in curls round his ears, falling in his eyes – Dean had perked up his faux-mo a little. He was in his black T and red shirt (and leather jacket, 'cause it was cold too) and eponymous biker boots. Sam turned round, to speak to Dean – behind him – over his shoulder as they neared Morgan and Luke's room. The impala was parked right in front of it.

'Did Luke mention where we're going?' he asked.

'What's the matter, Sam?' Dean asked, amused, as he moved to the driver's door. 'Scared he's gonna take us somewhere fun?'

'What's that supposed to mean?' Sam shot, pretending to be offended.

Dean cackled.

'Oh, come on, dude. Your idea of fun's an early night and a cup of cocoa. You practically smoke a p-_arrrgh_...'

The reason Dean's sentence trailed off was because Luke had just appeared outside his door, in front of them – and with him, Morgan: holding up her leather jacket, about to put it on. Dressed to kill, and probably with no simile intended. She looked up at the abrupt vocal fart, almost thrown in her face.

'That reminds me, Sammy,' Dean said, turning to his brother. 'We gotta check the fire-extinguishers in our room.'

'Why?' Sam asked, sensing her involvement in that statement. 'There's no fire.'

'Not in the building, anyway.' Dean replied, Zippo smile on.

Sam and Luke shared a shared vaguely-stunned eye-contact (Sam's eyebrows rose as he surveyed his brother, eyes narrowed) and cleared their throats – embarrassed for- and amused by-.

'We car sharing?' Luke said.

'Sure, why not,' Sam said, because Dean had his mouth hanging and that idiot grin on his face as he tried to summon up something cocky and funny to say. He made sure to get a jab in while Dean was... indisposed. 'Car-sharing, that's very green. And Dean _is _a tree-hugger.'

Luke snorted. 'Aye. Plus, I need to give you directions.'

They were about to move to do so when a wolf-whistle cracked the air, making all three men jump.

'Dude!' Morgan (the source of it) cried, eyes sparkling. 'Is she _yours_?'

She was staring, enraptured, at the Impala.

Dean beamed, seemed to grow a foot taller. 'Yup.'

She dropped off the walkway, stance bouncing almost like a fighter getting ready to bob and weave, walking along its length, running a hand up the hood, over the roof, down the trunk. Just _eating _up the muscle car with her eyes, mouth twitching with a genuine hint of admiration.

'She's _gorgeous._' She said finally, delivering her verdict. 'I bet she's got that Steve McQueen growl, am I right? Feel it in your gut when you gun it?'

'Yeah.'

'Screw the Bronco-' she threw the keys over her shoulder at Luke. 'I'm riding _this._'

To Dean, it was oddly like being sized up himself – like she had that night, in the bar, when he'd still been Zippo, and she'd still been Cherry: but, if possible, even more fun. There was one hitch, though – it actually got to him. He couldn't think of a snappy comeback. Dean scratched the back of his head as Morgan and Luke and Sam (shaking his head at him) climbed inside. Damn. When had The Snark ever failed him before? Stupid downstairs brain.

Also? He was _really _wishing he'd cleaned the pipes...

Lenore awoke when the knocking started at the attic trap-door, awoke with an unpleasant start, finding herself alone, again – though she had been surrounded by people, others falling into day-slumber, when she'd finally let sleep claim her. She had troubled dreams, of honey and blood and hovering knives.

She was exhausted after that long, hard morning of investigating, chasing Kate all over Worcester... or so she had told them. After leaving Sam and Dean's motel, she had in fact taken evasive maneuvers, spent hours winding around those little country back-roads... to give herself time to _think _as much as anything... so that they would be thrown off the trail, unable to trace, by her path, where exactly the hunters were. Of course, an unfortunate side-effect of this was that the two _other_ hunters' location was concealed. She had known, when she told them of Kate's death, that there would be uproar – whether it was justifiable or not didn't matter. Oddly, they had taken the news... calmly. Which was, if anything, even more disconcerting.

She wouldn't knowingly let them go after Sam and Dean, though. A debt was a debt.

Lenore pushed the covers off herself, and once more made her way through the old farm-house, once more found it empty – although that thick, stench-filled, cloying smoke of before had vanished, all the windows being tightly shut. It was still deserted, though, as she descended first the narrow, rickety and then normal staircases to the ground floor. She had expected one or two early-risers, of course – some were always up at the crack of dusk, she couldn't fault them for that.

What she didn't expect was to find them all waiting for her, once again. She didn't expect Eli to be standing, in her place, at the head of the table, arms folded, patiently.

'Eli,' she said, as she appeared, and they all acknowledged her presence in hastily-averted glances or outright hostility. 'What is this?'

'I called a meeting, while you were sleeping,' Eli said, voice calm, cool. Un-empassioned.

Which should have been her biggest warning.

'Why?' She demanded to know.

'To discuss Kate, and the others, and what we should do about it.'

Lenore stared, sternly, round the packed room. 'Why didn't you ask my permission first?'

Oh, but she had a feeling she already knew _that_ answer. She wanted to hear him say it, though. Eli, finally building up enough backbone to stand up to someone, and it just happened to be _her_. Oh no.

'Because we don't like the direction you're taking us in,' Eli answered, glaring, unashamed. 'When feeding off cattle was purely for survival, your way made sense – but not any more.'

'Unless it's escaped your notice,' Lenore frowned. 'We are _still_ under threat from hunters. If anyone goes missing, they will still come-'

'No. We've found a new way,' Eli interrupted, and the other vampires looked up eagerly, nodding, hunger and insatiable gluttony shining in their eyes, to a fang.

'What new way?'

'A new way to feed, on humans, without getting caught.'

'Eli, that's not possible-'

'Yes it is!' He shouted, losing his temper. 'It is! Rufus's nest knew that! He was teaching them, teaching them _new _ways to survive. Do you remember when not hurting humans used to be about survival, Lenore? Do you remember that? What about _survival?_ What about _evolution? _Not hurting people is about not getting caught, for us. What is it about for you?'

Lenore regarded him coolly, through her eyes, heart hardening.

Numbly, on some level, her shock registered. She really couldn't believe he was doing this. Vampires mate for life, how could he adhere to some rules, laud them as untouchable, and then _break_ them so thoroughly? She was, privately, already devastated.

'What do you mean?' She asked.

'After you left, _not long_, after you left,' Eli said, accusingly. 'The Doc showed up with another body. Kate's body. Where were you?'

'Driving, I... I told you, I followed her to the hunters-'

'Then how did she arrive back before you?' Donovan, the bald & tattooed behemoth shot.

'I don't know.'

'Oh, I think you _do_, Lenore,' Eli intoned, a threat lurking in his voice. 'I think you _know _where they are, and you're trying to hide it from us.'

'But why call a meeting?'

'Because it's not just them who need addressing, Lenore,' Anna, the meek one, murmured. 'You care more about _them _not getting hurt than _us_ not getting hurt.'

'That's not true-'

'No!' Eli snapped, slapping the table with his fists. To their credit, some of the others jumped – perhaps not carrying as much conviction as he. Hell hath no fury...

'Listen! We've made this decision for the good of the nest, for the _survival_, of the nest. That's our principle. But apparently,' here, the first sign of sadness, regret, as he sighed, 'it's not yours.'

Lenore folded her arms, feeling their eyes burning into her, as she looked at her bare feet.

'So... so, what have you all decided to do?'

'We're going to do what Rufus's nest were doing, we're going to find his new way to feed, to survive. We've already contacted vampires, elsewhere. They're coming to join us, here. We'll show them, too.'

'_This is madness,'_ Lenore thought, '_Rufus's nest died, and so will you, so will you all. How can you betray it? Everything you've worked for, for one kill? Nothing is worth reverting...'_

'Does this 'new way' involve hurting people?' she asked.

She didn't need them to nod to know the answer.

'They're our _food_ Lenore,' Eli growled. 'They're a lower link in the food-chain. We were _made_ to feed on them.'

'No better than animals, then?'

'We _are _animals! We are predator, _they _are prey – Rufus understood that, why can't you? We feed on them for survival, or not, when it suits us. _It suits us now_.'

'So where does that leave me?' Lenore asked, quietly.

This question drew the greatest looks of disquiet, of unease.

'Eli...? Where does that leave me?'

He folded his arms, too. 'If you can't change with us...? Not here.'

Lenore stood her ground. 'I can't be a part of this.'

'Well then,' Eli sat down, although he looked deflated, not meeting her eyes, disgruntled.

'You know where the door is. Goodbye Lenore.'

Numb, sickened, frightened for her unlife, watching a set of values she had abided by for so long, worked so hard to discover, and achieve, come crashing down in flames. Lenore turned on her heel, her feet still bare, and, without stopping collect her things, to say a tearful goodbye to these people – yes, people – she had protected, lead, loved, to the utmost of her pioneering ability, strode out, into the dark...

She could only think of one place to go...

They were pulling up outside what looked like an old deserted warehouse, mills, maybe an old industrial estate.

'Luke,' Dean asked, 'you sure this is the place?'

'Yup,' Luke put away his phone. 'This is it. Just follow me.'

He got out of the impala, grinning at the mystified expressions of his companions and dancing on his feet as he wove his way over – in between two of the mill-buildings. They followed, mingling glances, but following after anyway – because it was Luke, and, even after a day, Sam and Dean had learned that some leeway needed to be given. He lead them down the alleyway, and the space expanded into another parking-lot – absolutely full, he'd taken them a way which negated the need to fight for a space. Nice.

'Lu, how d'you know this was here?' Morgan asked, surveying the car park. There were quite a few classic cars, like Dean's, and she couldn't see a spare space anywhere, there were rocked-up dressing people milling around, chattering in groups, calling out to each other, laughing.

Luke grinned. 'I've been texting Lo. He told me all about it.'

That put her on edge, straight away. Morgan gathered herself into a closer distance from Luke, (Sam and Dean dawdled closer, too, behind) eyes darting around the car-park, seeing a new villain in every shady face. Christ, wasn't this night just going to be a barrel of laughs? They joined the large crowd of people milling around near the entrance. There were two entrances, one into a small, one-story thing in front of them, one a large square door in the dark-green painted, boxily-made building next to it – obviously an old factory, or something. Over peoples' heads, she could see the bright inviting glow of a green and yellow neon sign, painting the zinging words "Ralph's Chadwick Square Diner" painting its message against the black night sky. They waited a few minutes, she stamping her feet against the cold, stomach doing nauseating somersaults at the thought of Lo being near.

She didn't think she could stand it if he turned up, humiliated her like that in public. She couldn't even understand why she hadn't told Luke... Maybe because... because it was so hard to admit to being anything less than bullet-proof? When he just took everything on the chin, throwing it off as lightly summer rain. She didn't want to have to admit to how her heart had convulsed in her chest when she'd thought Dad- that was the point, wasn't it, really? How could she explain getting away, without mentioning Dad?

Morgan sighed. 'Bugger this for a bunch of bananas,' she snapped, nodding at the door-man, a ten-gallon wearing guy with a Metallica tour shirt, handlebar moustache and full set of sleeves. 'I think it's time to introduce him to the girls.'

'Don't ya think that's a little harsh?' Dean suggested, behind her, overhearing her muttered threats. 'Shooting him?'

Morgan snorted. 'I didn't mean _those_ girls. Luke, hold my coat, I'm not freezing my bollocks off out here.'

Luke took her jacket with a flourish, bowing aside as Morgan strode off. The bouncer looked up as she drew near, smiling but holding out a hand to bar her path – looking like he could've been persuaded, though. Unfortunately for him, Morgan's "girls" turned out not to the kind hiding by her leg, nor the kind currently filling out her bodice to admirable effect – but the ring-less, bracelet-free balls of pain attached to the end of her arms. A raucous cheer went up from the onlookers as Morgan, without any consideration for the laws of preamble, decked the door-man in a business-like manner, and went back to retrieve her coat as the mob moved forwards.

'Fcking bouncers,' she muttered, bad-temperedly (to her brother's beaming delight). 'Either they're hard enough to smack me about, or they're in the wrong job. So, are we doing this, or what?'

'Word!' Luke cried.

'Shut it, blondie.'

They took the larger, square entrance to the right, and found themselves in a bar with more jukeboxes than you usually saw in one place. All the people they'd seen outside seemed to have dissipated, somewhere, so they were left with a far cosier atmosphere here.

There were booths, low wooden tables and chairs, low enough to slouch in, wreaths of smoke (tobacco and otherwise, wafting that sweetish scent over) weaving around in the highest air like serpentine custodians of headspace. A few of pool-tables, frequented and circled by serious, gritty-looking men, not one of them capable of getting past airport security without setting off the metal detectors – perhaps best suited to the low-lit hanging lights. A bar counter with a piece of sheet-metal fronting it: one which had either been beaten into a pattern by the smith or kicked so hard, so often, over time, by its visitors, that it made no difference. There were hundreds of different whiskies and liquors lit up from below, like baubles, in the back of the bar, big burly men rolling casks of beer out from back, already – where a quaint little sign, pointing to the toilets, read "Poker in the front, liquor in the rear". Laughter and warmth rolled out of it as with the smell of oak in the furniture.

In short, their kinda place.

Morgan squeezed into the outside seat of their booth, next to Luke, opposite Sam and Dean, and finally heaved a sigh. She could see all the exits, smell the booze, feel the safety of lots of people, all around. Safety in numbers, she hoped. Alright. Maybe tonight would be alright, then. She got her cigarettes from her jacket-pocket, tapped one out and lit up. Yeah. Maybe it would.

'Right,' said Luke, smacking his hands together. 'Who's getting the first round in – Dean?'

Dean scowled, but got up, ungraciously, took their orders and padded over to the bar to retrieve them.

'Right!' Luke said, once his back was turned. 'What did you have in mind, Sam?'

Sam glanced at Dean's back.

'What're you two plotting?' Morgan interrupted.

'A...kind of a...Prank war?' Sam said, having the sense to sound sheepish about it.

Morgan sighed. 'You're asking Luke. Of course it's a prank-war. Does Dean deserve it?'

'_Big _time.'

'Well, then, feel free to waste your time colluding with this tit.'

'Colluding?!' Luke cried. '_Please_, Morgy, there are ladies present!'

'Yes. I know. I'm looking at one.'

Luke put a hand on her shoulder, pretending to choke up. 'Morgy? I... _I love you too._'

Now _that_ was the way to get rid of his sister in a hurry.

Elsewhere, the bouncer – having picked himself up off the floor, from amongst other peoples' feet – was currently in the process of retreating to a certain back room. It was plush, luxurious and sound-proofed, and, like the bar, similarly crowed with smoke, drifting across the low ceiling: but of a richer, cigar-toting kind. He found it almost deserted, but for the boss, who was sitting behind his desk. Never did to think of the boss as being alone, though, there was always someone nearby.

Lo looked up from lighting his cigar, tracing a spark through the air with the waving match-head before it snuffed out. He took a drag and exhaled through his nose, surveying the scruffy man before him.

'What happ-ened to you?' He inquired. The bouncer was sporting a livid bruise, stretched right across the bridge of his nose, two striking black eyes in a mask across his face, sheltered by the brim of his cowboy hat. It suited his murderous expression perfectly.

'They're here,' the bouncer muttered, begrudgingly.

Lo nodded. 'Good. Bring the woman here, to see me.'

Dean retrieved their orders from the bar, somehow managing to hold four drinks in his big hands without spilling a drop. He fought a roundabout route back to their booth, and sat down hey.

'Excuse me?'

He looked up, and found himself sitting with strangers.

'Oi, Dean, over here mate!' Luke called, and he twisted round to find them at another table.

'What the- I thought we were sittin' here.'

'Nahhh, mate, change of scenery. Come on!' (He winked at Sam).

Swearing under the sound of the nearest jukebox, blasting upbeat soul music, Dean undertook his complicated route again and slapped his load down into the table, where they left a cold wet mark, condensation the glass bottles. Everyone dug in, picking up theirs. He looked across at Morgan, who raised her beer in a silent toast to them all, and in thanks, as he shuffled round, about to grab his _new _seat. He was almost there, about to start talking, laying a few lines down, when a shadow fell across their table.

'Oh, look Morgy, it's the guy you punched!' Luke pointed out, unhelpfully.

'Yeah, thanks Luke.'

Cowboy hat doubled lecherously over her, one hand flat on the table, the other stretched out across the back of the chair, behind Morgan's head.

'There's ways you can make it up to me, sweetness.'

Dean and Sam exchanged an urgent look – Sam where he sat, beer hovering, about to be drunk, Dean behind the guy, who was in the way of his seat. Easy enough to-

'Dean-' Morgan growled, anticipating him. 'You raise a hand to help me, you will _lose _it.'

Dean raised his eyebrows, but backed up a step in reluctance, all the same – still on his heels, just in case.

Morgan placed her cigarette, carefully, on the edge of the ashtray, and swung around in her seat, sitting legs akimbo, like a man, for a moment – ignoring the fact that she was wearing a dress. She hated the bleeding things, anyway.

'You got a problem with me, pal?' She prompted straight-forwardly, jerking a hand at him.

'Oh, far from it sweetheart.'

'Good. Then _fck_ off then.'

'Not without you.'

Morgan sighed, nodding to herself, unsurprised. She jerked Luke's beer out of his hands and lips just as he was finishing it, and held it up as if to club him. Cowboy Hat scowled, snatched up one of his own, and smashed it on the edge of the table. It was... really interesting, watching his face go from leering booze-hound red to porridge grey. Morgan, smiling an unpleasant smile, replaced her own bottle, in tact, on the table, reached over to his quivering hand – now filled full of razor glass shards - and _squeezed_.

Everyone winced, including Cowboy Hat – who nearly passed out with the pain.

'You _bitch!_' He gargled, collapsing to his rangy knees, holding his afflicted hand by the wrist. 'My hand!'

'Pal, you should learn to fight,' Morgan said, picking up her still-smoking cigarette. 'Before you try.'

'You fcking _bitch_!'

'Second mistake: Iam not the bitch in this scenario.'

'My _hand!!_'

'Oh, for fck's sake, get over it!' Morgan snapped, scowling at him. 'Pick out the shards and you'll still be able to blow up your girlfriend. Now _piss off._'

Cowboy Hat hesitated and she let her eyes stray near him, a dog watching-but-not-watching its bone. 'Don't make me tell you again!'

He lurched to his feet, and staggered away.

'_Amateurs_,' Morgan grunted, shaking her head sadly at his back. She took a shaky drag on her fag. 'What kind of moron tries to smash a _glass bottle _with his own hand? J-e-sus _wept._'

When Dean, shaking his head at the show, looked over to share the joke with Sam, he realized that he and Luke had disappeared.

'Hey, where'd they go?' He asked Morgan. She paused in tucking her cigarettes back into the pocket of her jacket to jerk a thumb over her shoulder.

'In the john.'

'Where you going?' (as she stood, gulping down her beer).

Morgan dabbed at the lippy she could feel coming off after her first drink. Bloody stuff.

'I'm going to shoot some pool, deprive some people of their hard earned money,' she said, checking the side of her hand. She slapped her emptied bottle down on the table, with relish, having knocked it back.

'Have a blinder,' she wished him, and left before he could return the sentiment.

'_Dude_,' Dean thought, watching her skirts swish into the crowd surrounding the pool tables. '_Can't get a holda that pistol...'_ He looked down over his own beer, at the litter of glass pieces across the edge of the table.

'_And I'm not the only one..._'

Across the room, Morgan's mood was steadily improving. Bit of harmless violence, get some booze in her, and things were looking up. Now, time to play pool – and she may as well enjoy it, if she was stuck here. Meanwhile, Dean went off to find his brother and found him, and Luke, as he had expected from Morgan's promptings, in the John.

Sam and Luke were standing before the urinals, hands where you'd expect.

Talking – which was weird enough on its own – and not _about _what you'd expect.

'Dude,' Sam was exclaiming. 'How's yours get so big?'

Luke shrugged, looking down at it too. 'I dunno. I've been around a while...?'

'Huh...'

'Christ. Yours is big. Wider than mine – I suppose you can get a better grip on it, like?'

'Yeah, I guess.'

'Aye. Mine's just a brick.'

'_Sam?!'_ Dean forced out, in a strangled voice.

Sam and Luke twisted around. 'Yeah?'

Dean found his eyes drawn, inexorably downwards... where they were both holding their cell phones, both flicking through contact-lists.

'Alright?' Luke jerked his chin in recognition. 'We were just comparing phones.'

Dean's eyes, which had, up until that moment, been horrified, slid away from them, glazing over in dawning comprehension. He blinked. Of course they were.

'Right.'

Luke twirled his phone round, pistol-style, in his fingers, dropped it into his pocket and snapped on a brief smile. He did that awkward "we both know I no longer need to pee, and are not thinking about that fact" head nod and disappeared through the door. Sam, moving his eyes from Luke's back to Dean's face, found himself being stared at, in faint, low-lidded disgust.

'What?' His own eyes all wide and innocent, as only he could make them.

Dean shook his head, took a step forwards and unzipped his flies.

'_Ha!_ _Your face!'_ Sam thought, as he stared aimlessly at the wall before him, smiling a tiny dimpled smile. '_Thanks Luke.'_


	5. Chapter 15: Open Your Eyes

**Chapter 15: Open Your Eyes**

Lenore parked her pickup on Pleasant Street, her bare skin of her soles scraping unsettlingly on the pedals as she clenched her shoe-less feet on them. No lights on in Doc's place, but that could've meant anything, as far as he was concerned. The street was empty, and still, and utterly silent in the night. She got out, and tried the door. She must've stood there, in the empty, cold dark, a full ten minutes, waiting for him to answer. He didn't, so she pulled out her phone and tried plugging in his number. Her sensitive ears picked up the sound of it ringing, inside, ringing off the hook.

Sighing, Lenore walked barefoot back to the pickup. She could feel herself quaking and wavering inside, trembling on the edge of a breakdown. She couldn't believe they'd thrown her out, so callously, so completely. When she got back to the pickup, she was just about to climb back into the driver's seat when she noticed an indistinct lump, on the bed. Frowning, she wrenched an arm at it, pulling it onto the sidewalk. It was a suitcase, full of- full of her clothes, boots, some of her possessions. Someone had obviously thought enough of her, to pack it, for her, knowing which pick-up she'd take. Someone back in that farm-house still cared, and had still cast her out.

Swallowing down her grief, Lenore climbed back into the pickup, pulling the suitcase with her. She turned the keys in the ignition, wiped her ears, and started to head for the only other place she could think he'd be...

'I, I couldn't help it, boss, she just-'

Lo sighed as the bouncer reappeared in his room, holding his butchered hand out like a sacrificial offering, trying to explain himself. Milo pointed at one of the various shadowy men who always frequented his room.

'Get hiym to a hospital,' he ordered, watching the one nod at the other, and both shuffle off, visible wending their way past the bar in the closing doorway. Lo stood, stubbed out his cigar and folded his plum lips together in reflection. Alright, maybe he should go and say hello himself.

Out of the bathroom, Dean and Sam were playing darts (why, Dean didn't know, Sam was usually half-assed about games). Anyway, he was winning, because he was awesome, and as he hit his third bullseye in a row, he turned his head to grin at Sam, tongue on the brink of being stuck out like a child's. He threw his dart-

'ARGH, JESUS! MY EYES! MY BEAUTIFUL, BEAUTIFUL EYES!' Luke screamed, clutching at his face, where the dart was sticking out, spurting blood everywhere.

All credit to him, Dean's first thought was: '_Oh crap, Morgan's gonna KILL me!'_

He lunged forwards, swearing, and pulled Luke's hands away- aw, crap, blood went everywhere. Luke screamed again. People were stumbling everywhere, away from them, in horror.

Luke stood up. His eye was fine.

However.

The ketchup packet plastered to his hand?

Wasn't.

Sam couldn't keep his mirth in any more, his beer went everywhere as he collapsed, wracked by paroxysms of laughter, clutching at his sides, _weak_ with it. '_Oh, man, this was so worth it...'_

'I GOT KETCHUP IN MY EYES! MY BEAUTIFUL, BEAUTIFUL EYES!' Luke was still shouting in his face, at the exact same pitch and volume. 'SOME UTTER _BASTARD'S _PIERCED MY CONDIMENTS!'

Dean stared at him, eyes low-lidded and unimpressed again as he shook his head.

Everyone went quiet to hear what he'd say-

'...Gimme my dart back, you son-of-a-bitch.'

That was too much for Luke – he collapsed, as well.

Morgan looked up, from across the bar, as she heard the commotion – but only with mild interest. She could pretty much always guess who would be the cause, with Luke around. She turned, at a touch on her arm, thinking the other player was getting overly presumptuous, and found herself staring into Lo's smiling face. He put his hands on her arms, bent and kissed her twice, once on both cheeks.

'Bonsoir, Morgan.'

For once, she was too stunned to say anything. So she kneed him in the groin, instead.

'You've got a fcking nerve,' she growled (shaking her head at her partner to signal that their game was still on) as Lo clutched the cushion of the pool-table, trying to remain standing.

'Morgan,' he wheezed. 'What ar'you doing?'

'Don't give me that BS, Lo!' She exhaled angrily. 'I'd drag you out to the Bronco, right now – if I had it with me.'

'_Why?_'

'To!-' She leaned over him, lowering her voice. 'To exorcise you! I don't know what you are, or how you got in Milo, but I'm going to rip you outta there, so don't get comfy.'

'Morgan,' Lo pulled himself to his feet, accent thick. 'Think about whart you're saying.'

He stood and loomed conspiratorially closer, whispering.

'You _know_ I have tattoos, all over me, to prevent that. You _know_ I have spells, charms, in plaice-'

'Yeah, but-'

'Why do you think I am possessed?'

'Because you showed up at our motel and attacked me!'

'How did you get away?'

'I didn't, you ran off, as you bloody well know-'

'Why did I run?'

'Because-'

'Did anyone else see me? How closely did _you _look?'

Morgan paused.

She'd been blindfolded, hadn't she?

'You _levitated _me.'

'No.' Lo shook his head. 'Whoever you saw, whatever that was, was not me.'

'How do you explain the levitation?'

'I can't. I only know, as _you _should, that it's not possible for me to be possessed.'

'What if you are, and you don't know it?'

Lo tilted his head, considering.

'That can happen – but not to me. Demons do not easily overlook the key of Solomon, Morgan. You know that. I have more than one tattoo a demon could not pass. Perhaps what you saw was a shape-shifter. Think about it. My form would be a valuable tool for any shifter.'

'And the levitation?'

'Well, you've dealt with shifters. They, all of them, have some psychic ability. Did you see any other evidence of demon activity? Black smoke, different eyes?'

Maybe it was the booze in her system, or the pool-cue wielder waiting, impatiently, for this guy to take off so they could carry on, or the fact that he was pushing her, firing off questions faster than she could think... but for whatever reason, she forgot the flickering radio.

'What are you doing here, Lo?' Morgan asked.

'I own this place.'

'Oh. I... I punched a door-man-'

'Yes, I know, I've already sent him to hospital.'

Morgan scowled, frowning up at him, still not convinced. Milo took a step back, solemnly, and put his hands on his hips, gold quincunx-carved signet rings gleaming on his fingers, a stretch of dark chest exposed below the expensive silk shirt he was wearing under his jacket. He always went a little retro, Lo, being older. So now he had on a fedora, and a kind of fur stole, over his long midnight-purple coat, flared trousers, which together should've made him look like a pimp. With his French accent, his deep south, Hoodoo and Vodoun, though, he carried it off, and with dignity and flair. So he couldn't entirely cleanse himself of that aura of coiled menace? She knew for a fact it was one he sustained to keep all the dangerous people he associated with in check. Just like her Dad.

Seeing her certainty wavering, Lo treated her to one of his rare, purest-white, dimpled smiles, long pretty eyes sparkling. Not a common occurrence from him,

'Shape-shifters aside, it's good to see you again, Morgan.'

She shrugged, awkwardly. 'Aye... well...'

'How long has it been?'

'A while. Not since the funeral.'

'Ah, yes.'

He regarded her for a second, and then nodded, as if satisfied. He drew a silver coin out of one suit pocket, rolled it across the top of his fingers – it clinked on his rings – and threw it into the nearest jukebox.

'Have a good night, Morgan,' he wished her, French accent like smoke and silk. 'Give Luke my regards. I expect I'll see him later.'

The Jukebox shuffled to another song:

'_Company, always on the run, destiny is a rising sun...'_

'Who put this on?' Morgan's pool-partner asked.

'It's on random,' she replied.

A cold draught shivered across Morgan's shoulders as she turned to watch her opponent take his next shot – he overshot, and the eight-ball flew over the cushion, smack into her waiting hand, fast reflexes snatching it out of the path of her head. A default win, to her. Morgan peered at the eight-ball, frowning as she dropped it back onto the table. Her opponent swore, threw his cue down and stormed off, leaving her with the loose stack of notes lying nearby. She had talked him up to a tidy sum, by hinting that he was too chicken to play for more, and now – well, they had enough for now.

Morgan collected her winnings, tucked them safely away into an inner pocket of her leather jacket – lying, with it, on the side of the table. Someone else was already walking forwards, coin in hand, for a chance to play.

Morgan shivered again as she took her coat, frowning, not putting it on. The cold was retreating, sure, but in its place, a strange... heat, a warmth, was washing over, creeping up her limbs from the toes, from the fingers. An itch, a heat, overwhelming, she closed her eyes, swaying... burning through her like aniseed, drying her tongue, sending a twitch up and down her shoulders, a tension building inside. Gulping down, breathing harder, feeling her head swim and buzz, Morgan tottered, on heels which suddenly seemed far too high, across the bar, disorientated by the laughter, the noise, and fell through the nearest door...

Luke was still calming down from the laughter, squinting through his ketchup-ed eye and rubbing at it. Dean seemed a bit less pissed off and bit more jovial when he got in a round to apologise, even though he couldn't really afford it. He was sitting with both the lads, enjoying the way Dean was refusing to look at or speak to Sam, but sending little signals – like, oh, say, emptying ashtrays into his drink. To which Sam kicked at the legs of the chair he was swinging on. To which Dean- Luke noticed Morgan's flight, and raised an eyebrow.

'S'cuse me f'ra sec,' he muttered, getting to his feet.

Dean, getting up from his interesting new position on the floor (legs in the air, with an ungracious growl of '...that is _Bush_-league, man' - which just Sam off giggling again) followed him. As soon as they were out of ear-shot, he punched Luke on the arm to get his attention – Luke spun around.

'Hey,' Dean said in an undertone, watching Sam from a distance. 'Sam and me, I don't know if you noticed? But we're kinda in the middle of a prank war-'

'_Gosh, really?! You do surprise me,'_ Luke thought. What he said was: '_Fck _no!' As if staggered.

'Yeah – dude, you gotta help me get him back.'

Luke took a deep breath, feeling harassed.

'Alright, aye, I... I'll think of something.' He slapped Dean on the shoulder, so he'd let him go and Dean cackled in a whisper:

'Thanks, man! You're a life-saver.'

Dean sauntered off, back to Sam.

Luke crashed into the doorway he'd seen Morgan leaving through, and found her standing in the passageway to the back-rooms and the loos. She was slumped against the wall, head rolling deliriously, breaths wracking.

'Morg!' he strode forwards, gripping her high up, protectively, by the arms. 'Jesus, are you on pills? Your pupils're huge!'

'Luke!' Morgan croaked, scowling at him.

'Sorry! I'm just saying... What's up, have you been roofied?'

'No...mmm. No,' Morgan was shaking her head, shivering all over, although her skin was boiling hot. 'No, Luke, it's something else, I think it's- it's- mae hi'n _goruwchnaturiol_.'

_It's paranormal._

Sht, if she was speaking in Welsh, it was serious.

'Morg? Morg?' He held her hot, shaking head up in his hands. 'Morgy? Answer me: ydy 'ch anghenfil?'

Eyes low, barely containing it, Morgan nodded.

Luke managed to keep her pinned to the wall as he cast his eyes, frantically, about. The bang of a door opening, nearby, made him whirl around, and a big man revealed himself, maneuvering a huge keg of beer into place. He was moving at a pace, obviously well-used to his task – they must've been burning through a few, that night.

'Oh, mate, can I borrow that keg for a minute?'

The guy, quite rightly, snorted. 'Screw you, buddy, what've I got _moron _written across my forehead?'

'_You'll do it if you don't want to eat your food through a straw, **buddy**,' _Morgan snarled, surprising them both.

Luke snorted. He reached out a hand to the keg, placed his palm flat against its cool surface – the guy looked on, nonplussed, as he stretched out his other hand to Morgan, closed his eyes. Sparks started to dance on the metal of the keg (the key gasped, reared back, hit his head against the wall) the cheap strip lighting above them flickered, but in a second, after a rushing, whispering noise, like flying leaves, it was over. Luke ignored the shaken-up keg-monkey as he turned back to his sister, pushing herself up the wall.

'Ti'n iawn?'

_You okay?_

Morgan nodded. 'Fast thinking,' she muttered, off hand, as awkward with compliments and gratitude as everything else in life. 'Putting it in the beer.'

Luke beamed.

'What'll happen to it?'

'Reckon it'll just be extra-strong, y'know.'

'That could come back to bite us.'

'Aye, well-'

'Hey,' Sam was standing in the doorway, in a rush of noise, from the bar. 'I just saw this guy rush past. Everything okay?'

'Wha- oh, yeah, sure,' Luke nodded, seeing that Morgan had snapped upright as soon as he'd appeared. 'But I wouldn't drink the beer on tap if I was you, mate.'

'Really?'

From Sam's expression, he clearly expected to hear that Luke had peed in it.

'Oh, it's nothin' nasty!' Luke assured him. 'I just...wouldn't.'

'O-kay.'

'_But I don't have to tell Dean that...'_

When Sam came back from the bathroom, they were, all three of them, seated at their little round table - Luke and Morgan on his left, Dean on his right. As he dropped into his seat, he figured out, from what was being thrown back and forth over the table, that Dean and Luke were having a "Yeah, but I bet you've never hunted an"-Off. Dean was bringing out the big guns, both of them a little drunk.

'Hey, Luke, you ever hunted a Wendigo?'

Luke's face fell. 'What, just the one? On it's own? No.'

'Ha! Well, you- wait... wha'd ya mean "just the one"...?'

'Ahh, I remember it well. Me, Morg and Jo were backpacking through the Ituri Rainforest of Zaire-'

'_DAMNIT!'_

'-course, I _say _Zaire, really it's The Democratic Republic of _Congo_, since the war – which we had absolutely _nothing_ to do with, by the way,' Luke pointed, seriously. 'Anyway...!'

Sam was giggling uncontrollably at the look on Dean's face, as he threw up his hands, outdone. He hadn't had this much fun as Dean's expense since the midget.

'Hold up,' Sam said, as something occurred to him. 'Luke – who's Jo?'

'Wow, wow, ' Luke gawped, eyes lighting up. 'I haven't told you about _Jo?'_

'No, you haven't.'

'Jonah? Jo? He's our big brother!'

Luke started to rave, warming to his subject even more. Oh, Jo was awesome – scourge of South Wales, the scariest son-of-a-bitch who ever lived. Almost a better hunter than their dad, everyone said. Encyclopaedic knowledge of anything freaky, he said (Dean looked at Sam, speculatively). Bigger than Sam, broader than Dean, tough as nails, used to be an illegal cage-fighting champion when he was younger, until punters got sick of knock-outs. Could put his hand clear around a German Shepherd's neck by the time he was twelve, expelled from every school he'd ever set foot in. Jo who stapled beer-mats to his face and head-butted people when he got bored. The reason local teens used to tip-toe whenever they had to pass their house, back in Britain. Once sneaked into SAS training in place of a mate who was trying to pass into E Squadron in Newport, via something called the Brecon Beacons Forty Mile Hike. Even got as far as a jungle-trek in Brunei before being found out when he set the Sergeant-Major who was supposed to be interrogating him on fire.

By the sound of things, Jonah ate demons for breakfast, with a side-order of ground glass.

Suddenly, a lot about Luke made sense, it clicked into place. No wonder he'd survived so long, being so... himself... if Morgan was the younger, softer version of this other sibling, Luke must've been used to a small world of pain descending on anyone who so much as _looked _at him funny. Speaking of Morgan – Dean noticed, that as Luke talked more and more about Jonah, a strangely blank, hollow expression filtered, bit by bit, into her features... until she was gazing away from them, down at the floor, quiet and lost. A muscle was ticking in her jaw, she had what could only be described as a _black _look in her eyes.

'Innit, Morg?' Luke addressed her, a tag line to yet another awesome Jo-anecdote, and she shifted, blinking, as she faded from her reverie.

'Yeah.'

She blinked again, caught Dean watching her, and stood.

'If you'll excuse me, ladies,' she muttered.

She left them, as Luke launched into his story ('_probably the biggest gig we've ever done, mate_') about the Republic of Congo...

Dean listened to Luke's latest for a while. He was a good story-teller, and if half this stuff was true? However... soon Sam's intelligent questions and genuine interest distracted Luke. So, mouth pursed in vague annoyance, Dean glanced around. He spotted Morgan's mane of black hair and (he glanced down) shapely ass perched on a stool, at the bar. Mentally shrugging to himself, Dean finished his drink and went over.

As he approached, head cocked to see her face, he saw that she was smoking again, leaning on her elbows, drinking Jim, neat, and staring moodily into her glass.

'Anyone sitting here?' he asked, motioning to the bar-stool next to her.

Morgan's gaze didn't shift. 'Apparently not.'

Eyebrows flicking up ('_tough crowd..._'), Dean sat, swinging his hands onto the bar in front of him and slouching – so that the rigid collar of his leather coat rode up to a comfortable spot on the back of his head. Ahh, this felt like home.

'Can I get a glass?' he asked the barkeep, who promptly smacked one down in front of him. Dean glanced at Morgan, pointed over his shoulder and slapped on his chick-winning smile as he said:

'So, uh, I guess you're not interested in hearing your brother's stories again, huh?'

Morgan swivelled on her stool, looked him square in the eye for a moment, and then twisted around to look across the room.

Sam and Luke were sitting at their table, maybe ten feet away, lit up like a Christmas tree, a little jewel of a scene in the middle of the crowded, smoky room.

Sam was on the right, sitting forwards with shoulders curled over, feet jigging underneath the table. There was a boyish look of amusement on his face – he had his beer held up to his lips, but hadn't taken a sip in several minutes – and he kept laughing. That was because of Luke, on the left, who had his hair restrained (but only just) in a ponytail. He was talking animatedly about something, hands waving, rocking back and fore in his chair as he gestured. He seemed to be pausing only to take breath, swig his beer, tuck stray strands of hair behind his ears, and to grin and nod (as if to say "you get what I'm saying?") as the punchline of whatever joke he was telling hit home.

As they watched, Luke mimed cowering from something, arms thrown up over his head, legs lifting off the floor, and Sam abruptly choked on his beer.

'The one about the pygmies, the wendigos and the flame-thrower,' Morgan said, and turned back. 'Heard them all a thousand times.'

'And are they all true?' Dean asked, watching her profile and trying not to sound too curious. 'Luke's stories?'

Morgan smirked crookedly, and swallowed her mouthful of whiskey.

'Oh yes. That's the thing about Luke – he _always _tells the truth.'

The sarcasm didn't escape Dean, he just didn't get it, so he met it with his own:

'Wow. That's... gotta be annoying.'

The ghost of a smile danced around Morgan's mouth. She leant sideways to fill up Dean's empty glass from her bottle of bourbon, before refilling her own – a little sign which said 'alright, since you're here...'

'Now, see,' she said as she did so, 'you've already fallen into his trap.'

Dean glanced at her. 'What trap is that?'

'Luke's. He tells these crazy stories – smiling, joking around – and people assume he's exaggerating, because it's _him _doing the telling,' she laughed to herself. 'I mean, right now, he's telling _your _brother about unleashing a flame-thrower on a whole pack of wendigos. But what he leaves out, is what it was actually like to be there.'

Dean raised his eyebrows questioningly. '_Jesus_,' he thought. '_She sounds like a 'nam vet..._'

'Where is "there", exactly?''

'Africa,' Morgan said shortly. 'Eastern. Y'see, there's this war going on, over there, in the Rain Forest. Millions dead. Cannibalised. Some people got pushed out of their country, taking advantage of them in the next, y'know? The local tribes have this old superstition about the Mbuti Pygmies, living round there, that says they're – magical, somehow, and that if you eat their flesh, some of their magic passes onto you.'

'Nice...'

'So, what you get is this guerrilla war, between people – just people, mind – and because one side's bigger than the other, they keep winning, and eating more and more human flesh, and when _that _happens, you get-'

'Wendigos...!' Dean muttered, nodding, quietly awed.

'Exactly... So, by the time Luke and I arrive, there's already a pack of the fckin' things running around, picking off humans and animals, whether they're involved with the war or not. A war we're stuck in the middle of, by the way. And the only people who believe us are the Pygmies themselves, because they're the ones who get taken. But they don't exactly _trust _us, 'cause the only other big people they've seen are the ones going after them with machetes, or the actual Wendigos themselves. We're all alone, in the middle of this huge bloody jungle, no phones, no connection to the outside world. There're bunches of nut-jobs with machetes after us 'cause we keep helping the Pygmies, the Pygmies won't help us, won't give us guides, and on top of that, there's a pack of ruthless, perfect killers stalking us.'

Morgan paused in her vitriolic rant to take breath, and realised that she had a captive audience in Dean, who was looking at her in frank amazement.

'Dude...' he muttered, consolingly. It didn't really do it justice.

Morgan laughed hollowly, looking down at her glass, a little embarrassed by her own outburst.

'You said it, bub. We ended up waiting until the weather was hottest, and we control-burned a section of the jungle, around the Wendigos' nest – when we eventually found it that is. Jo was with us, then. He's... a good pyro-man, I'll give him that. And then, baby bro gets out the flame-thrower, and we barbecue the whole damn lot. Sounds like fun, but believe me it wasn't.'

She knocked back some more Jim and winced at the familiar burning down her throat before continuing. 'But the way Luke tells it, the whole thing was a roaring great laugh, and he'd give anything to jump back on a plane and do it all again.' She paused, wondering why she was revealing all this to a perfect stranger, or as good as, steeling herself to it, though, because she'd already said too much to stop. Too drunk.

'He tells it...' she murmured '...and he takes away the fear. He leaves out the feeling, of what it's actually like, to know that the only thing standing between you and the fava-beans is your own guts. He makes it okay for these things to exist, because, if Luke can make it out alive...? So can everyone else...'

Morgan lapsed into silence, swallowing her sore throat and running her fingers round the brim of her glass. Dean stared at her profile with renewed curiosity, feeling that strange sensation, as he sometimes did, as if the world was tilting.

'So how's that his "trap"?' he asked.

Morgan shrugged. 'Well, you know as well as I, this job isn't for the faint-hearted. It's not nice, it's not happy, it's not something you do so you can have decent stories to tell. To do this job, as well as he does, and despite how he comes across, Luke's got to be hard. He's got to be tough, and strong, and know how to handle himself. It can't all be luck, y'know? Now, I know this about him, but you don't. You don't know Luke, really – beyond the fact that he's a complete _nutter _who somehow managed to kill fourteen fangs, last night. In one sitting, unarmed, and without getting hurt. And yet, you've just left him alone with your kid brother.'

Dean frowned at this, turning round instinctively to check up on Sam at Morgan's words – but there he was, sitting happily. Enthralled, in fact.

'And now, look at my brother,' Morgan said. She had turned round a little to see the reaction on Dean's face. 'I mean really _look _at him.'

Dean shot her a bemused glance, and then did as she said, eyes blank with puzzlement.

'What am I looking for?'

Morgan sighed, putting her glass down with a clink.

'Jesus, boy – use your instincts! Imagine... imagine you've just walked in here, and you're picking out which blokes're going to be the tricky ones to take down if the place goes up – if you're like me, you do that all the time – right?'

'Right.'

'So, now – look at Luke. What do you see?'

Dean did as he was told. He was about to shake his head, still lost, when, suddenly – Luke stopped telling whatever story he was in the middle of.

Sam had turned away, to order another round with the passing waitress, and, as he did so, Luke took a swig from what remained in his bottle, the laughter going out of his face as he glanced around the bar. And there it was. Long, narrow, pretty eyes, usually sparkling with mirth, now seemed smoldering and bruised, wandering calculatingly round the room – dangerous, even. In the youthful, handsome face they looked almost unnatural, wolfish, for a second. It was like watching something ethereal, inhuman. And as quick as they'd appeared, they vanished, melted once more into the amused twinkling of before.

He was talking to Sammy again...

Luke cleared his throat, stopping to take a swig from his beer. The last story had gone down well, as they always did, and now Sam, face aching from smiling, was ordering another round from the waitress. Luke looked around, and caught sight of his sister, sitting at the bar, looking at him over her shoulder, and, next to her, Dean. He caught Dean's eye for a moment, by accident, and smiled, tilting his beer in recognition.

He whistled, low, and Sam (in the middle of thanking the waitress), followed his gaze.

'What?'

'Your brother's a brave man,' Luke acknowledged, nodding in their direction. 'The last bloke who spent that long sitting next to Morgy was only there 'cause she'd nailed his nuts to the stool.'

'Ahhh,' Morgan whispered, nodding appreciatively. 'Now you see it.'

Unnerved, but not willing to show it, Dean stared at the guy for a second, properly, suspiciously, and then turned back.

'He's taller than I realized,' he admitted casually. 'He's gotta be- what?'

'6' 1/2".'

'I'll be damned...'

Morgan laughed throatily.

'Oh, don't feel bad, Dean,' she said, a note of pride in her voice. 'No-one ever takes Luke seriously. They under-estimate him. That's his trap. He makes himself the clown, the comic, the little guy – even when he isn't. So no one pays him any attention until it's too late. And you suddenly realise you've got this bloke with a sht-load of experience behind him, aiming a flame-thrower right at your face, about to make you...'

'...Extra freakin' crispy?'

Morgan nodded, laughing down her nose, grinning crookedly again, and waved her glass to punctuate her sentence–

'And that, Dean, was exactly what my dad never got about him.'

Dean's smile vanished, weighed down by the unpleasant dropping, in his stomach, the old ache of grief, gnawing away at him inside. Whenever someone mentioned their dad. He swallowed, forcing back the sorrow, and stared aimlessly across the bar, over his glass.

'Something I said?' Morgan asked, sensing his unease.

Dean forced himself to laugh. 'Nah. Not you... someone else...'

'...Hmm. Been there,' she murmured hoarsely, the drink rasping in her voice for a second.

'Hmmm,' Dean nodded into his glass, a humorless grimace on his face as he tucked his chin in.

Morgan gave him a sideways glance, not moving her head, just enough to see his hands on his glass.

'For a while, after my dad died,' she said quietly. 'I couldn't see the sense in living. Didn't want to. I mean... waking up, every day? It was so damn hard to just... go on living... when all I wanted to do was stop.' She swallowed. 'But it gets easier.'

'Really?' Dean retorted skeptically, and more aggressively than he'd intended.

'Yes... I just decided, that if I wasn't going to live for me, I may as well do it for someone else.'

Dean looked up at the odd tone in her voice, and found himself being pinned with a knowing, cynical look. Morgan stood, picking up her bottle and leaning back on the bar for a second.

'Maybe you should try the same thing...' She suggested, eyebrows rising, and walked off.

'Hey,' Sam said, appearing in her vacated space. 'Having fun?'

And Dean suddenly understood what she meant...

It was, he guessed, her way of telling him that they both had bigger priorities.

Dean sighed.

Luke finished his beer as Sam, making his excuses, left the table, and when he dropped his head again Morgan was standing opposite him, arms crossed.

'What is it?' he prompted.

'Nothing,' Morgan grumbled. '... Just wish I didn't talk so much when I'm pissed...'

Luke grinned and slapped his empty bottle down with relish.

'That's the problem with you – you've got no stamina woman!'

'Whatever you say, Luke.'

'So how's it goin with Dean?'

'It's not.' Clamming up, instantly. He sighed.

'How'd you get on with Sam?' (Morgy was asking).

'Fine. I just told him the old stories, you know-'

'The Pygmies...?' Morgan rolled her eyes.

'The Pygmies,' Luke confirmed, grinning.

'I spotted you're passing the beer around.'

'Aye. Drinks on me. I think I'm dissipating it... I think we're alright.'

'No, we're not,' Morgan sighed. 'I can still feel it on me, Lu. I don't know if I can-'

'Oi, oi, _oi_,' Luke said, touching her on the elbow (a man, passing by, shot Luke an envious glance at this). 'We'll be fine. Chin up!'

Morgan laughed, weakly.

'Aye, alright. I'm going back to the tables. See if I can squeeze some more money out of these dickheads.'

Luke grinned. 'That's more like it! In the meantime, leave the Thing to me. I reckon I've got an idea to get you out of the woods...'

Morgan looked up at him, eyes gleaming shrewdly.

She knew him too damn well to let that sentence pass.

'Luke,' she said, in a dangerous tone of voice. 'What are you planning?'

'Nothing, nothing,' he said, hands lifting, convincing no one. 'Just a little entertainment, that's all.'

The Winchesters were back in a booth, sipping beer, Dean (on the now extra-strong stuff, and feeling it) scoping out the surroundings.

'Boys!'

They turned.

Luke was standing in front of them, next to a stunning African girl – oddly familiar-looking, Dean thought. Lilac eyes, pin-thin dreadlocks bound up in an elaborate bun on the back of her head – like the crest of some dazzling bird of paradise – as she tilted her head. She couldn't have been less than 5' 10", in heels which made her taller than Luke, and not much besides.

'This vision of Nigerian loveliness,' Luke said appreciatively. 'Is Honey. And she has asked for a dance, with... as it happens, with _you_, Sam.'

Sam almost choked on his beer, looking up wide-eyed in surprise. He sat forward in his seat hurriedly, disentangling his bottle from his lips and replacing it clumsily on the table. Sitting across from him, Dean's indulgent amusement vanished in favor of scorn as he rolled his eyes and closed them, pained, mouthing the word "smooth" to himself.

Sam stared, a hunted rabbit-in-the-headlights look stealing over him, and snapped on a polite smile.

'I, uh... I'm sorry, I'm really, really flattered. Really. I am... but, uh, I don't dance.'

Luke beamed, winked at Dean.

'Oh, that's okay Sam!' he said, slapping him reassuringly on the shoulder. '_Honey does. _Take it away, Honey.'

To Sam's growing, burning-faced embarrassment, and Dean's awe, Honey extended a stiletto'ed foot and swept the contents of their small table aside. So she could climb onto it.

'Woah, woah,' Luke said, motioning at his face. 'Forgetting something?'

Smiling with dewy-eyed affection, the amazonian Honey bent her body over and planted a kiss on Luke, one which lasted a few seconds and a body-sway more than necessary.

Adopting a dazed look, Luke staggered a little and moved away with a comic staggering gait – which fell away into an enthusiastic jog as he spotted yet another person he knew across the room.

'_Damn_,' Dean thought, as Honey strutted her stuff, inches away, to the music. '_It's getting seriously hard to hate this guy..._'

Hell, it was worth it just to see the look on Sammy's face. He kept trying to slide his coaster out from underneath one of Honey's heels, and then smiled politely (but excruciatingly), as she bent over and kissed him on the cheek, keeping her hands on his shoulders as she danced, even when he sat back, blushing furiously. Dean thought his face was about to crack from smiling.

Eventually, though, Honey got thirsty and (more likely) bored, and left their table for her friends.

Sam, instantly leaning forwards to replace his beer on the table, caught sight of the idiot grin on Dean's face – badly concealed by the bottle he was sipping in front of it.

'Shut-up...' he muttered ungraciously.

'Ha!'  
'It's not funny, Dean.'

'You're right. It's _hilarious!_'

'It's sleazy.'

'Yeah, well,' Dean said, looking away distractedly. 'I'm a fan of all seven sins.'

'What? Sleazy isn't a sin, Dean.'

'That's what I'm trying to tell ya!'

'No, I mean, it's not one of the seven _deadly _sins.'

'Yeah it is. It totally is. Sleazy, Grumpy, Dopey, Snoopy, Shifty, Slappy, Happy-' a gaggle of women passed close by, (Sam rolled his eyes as Dean turned his head to follow them, losing the trail of his sentence)- '_Happy_, happy... Just... s'cuse me for, _five _minutes!'

Dean shot him a fleeting, pleading look – relaxed into relief, when Sam nodded, hurriedly scooped up his drink, and disappeared.


	6. Chapter 16: The Curious Incident

**Chapter 16: The Curious Incident **

**of The Sly Dog In the Night Time**

Sam, sighing, kept his eyes on his brother's back until he reached the group of women.

The familiar cry of "_Ladies...!_" drifted back to him over the sound of music and talk, and Sam smiled to himself, shaking his head. He took a sip from his drink, and sucked his breath in, philosophically, through his teeth. There was someone else going around – he looked up and watched, idly, as Luke threaded his way through. Sam had heard the expression "working a room" before, but had never seen it actually demonstrated so well.

With his eye for puzzles and logic, and order in chaos, Sam looked on...

Even if you couldn't see him, exactly, you could track Luke's progress by the outbursts of movement and laughter from each unit of chattering or dancing people he hit. Or the way they looked around as he pointed out someone from another group, who would look up as their name was called, drift over and get pulled in, so that all the groups mingled and mixed, got introduced to each other, until, finally, people from all over the room were calling out to each other. Meeting new friends and sharing the same jokes, expanding on them. You could go anywhere and get along with anyone.

It was almost magic.

Luke eventually reached his destination – the table – and slumped down exuberantly into Dean's vacated seat. He couldn't fail to miss the look of bemused acknowledgment on his companion's face.

'Having a good time?!' he yelled.

Sam didn't have a chance to answer – because, at that moment, a pale, black-haired young goth (green-eyed and dressed in black and red), appeared, planting a hand on the back of Luke's chair (who examined the newcomer's face, politely but puzzled). 'Excuse me,' the newcomer apologized to Sam, and then suckered his mouth onto Luke's. They broke apart and a raucous screech of delight and applause went up from a gang of girls standing nearby.

'Zee!' one of them called. 'Any luck?'

The goth gave a theatrical shrug, and they burst out laughing again.

Luke, realising he was being made the butt of some joke, and not to be outdone or put-off by the goth's triumphantly-flushed face, clenched his jaw and shrugged. He put down his beer.

'Oh no,' Sam said, grimacing. 'Luke, you're not gonna-.'

He was.

Luke swung the bowing (now-named) Zee off his feet, Hollywood-style, grabbed the back of his expertly-flicked-out hair, and smacked lip on lip. The shrieks were, if possible, even louder this time – the hunter had become the hunted. Sam couldn't stop himself laughing, in something between shock and hysteria, at the way the goth first flailed in panic and then went rigid in horror. Or the way Luke swung him upright, in one fluid movement, shaking his head like someone trying to throw off the effects of a blow to the face. Which, in a way, Sam guessed, he was...

The goth stared down at his victim-turned-assailant, (who was wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve) and Luke grinned.

'That's how it's done,' he said, patting him consolingly on the arm.

Zee staggered off to his clique, almost collapsing on the way, and Luke settled back into his seat with his beer in hand. Spotting the still-dazed persuasion of Sam's facial expression (one that seemed to follow Luke around), he paused in drinking to push something between his teeth - it was a wad of gum.

'Wanted me chewing-gum back,' he said, by way of an explanation.

Sam shook his head, speechless.

'What?'

'How many people have you made out with tonight?' he finally managed to ask.  
Luke went blank. 'Uh... Dunno. Stopped countin' when I ran out of ice-cubes.'

There was such a look of open, unassuming honesty on his face you almost couldn't believe what he was talking about. Sam tried to bend his mind around the latest in the long string of strange events surrounding the guy sitting opposite him. He pointed in the direction of the lately-departed Zee.

'So who was that?'

Luke shrugged. 'Dunno. I thought that's just what blokes were like in Massachusetts. He fancied a cuddle, I didn't mind. Who'm I to refuse someone who wants to play tensil tonnis?'

'Tensil tonnis?'

'Aye, tonsil tennis.'

Sam rubbed his eyes, struggling to find the words.

'I... I think you're ignoring the elephant in the room, here, Luke.'

This received the carefully-blank look of someone to whom a sentence has just made _absolutely no sense_.

Sam sighed. 'It's an idiom.'

There was another long pause.

'...Are they the ones with the small ears, or-'

'Hey,' Dean appeared over Sam's shoulder, leaning casually on the chair-arm and swigging his beer.

'Heya,' Luke answered with a happy smile. 'We were just having a biology lesson.'  
'Really?' Dean said, and beamed as a thought occurred to him. 'Hey, maybe you could explain some of the ins and outs to Sammy, here. The birds and the bees. Between you and me,' he drew up half of his mouth, in a mocking grimace, 'I don't think he's gettin' it.'

'Ahhh...'

Sam stared open-mouthed at his brother, swayed his head (as if to say "what are you doing?"). And Dean realized he might have hit a nerve. He hurriedly opened his mouth to fix it. 'Oh, and, you could tell Luke about... the... uh...' He floundered. Sam leaned back, pointedly, in his chair, staring expectantly at Dean. 'The...uh...' Dean scratched his head, and Sam pushed him dismissively off the chair (to an indignant cry of 'I'm gettin' there!'). He slipped and stumbled a bit, but managed to hang on (if not to his dignity) while Sam tried to focus:

'Luke,' he started again, beating a hand to the rhythm of his words. 'That guy just walked up to you – and _kissed _you.'

Luke looked across at Dean, as he pulled himself up with lips pursed, drunkenly.  
'He's a sharp one, this brother of yours, I'll give him that. Aye, Sam, I did spot that.'

'...He's a guy.'

Luke shied away. 'Ouch! Nothing escapes you, I can see. Yes, Sam, he is a guy. Or a boy. Or a... Girly... man. Person.'

'So...?'  
'So... what? You've never kissed a man before?'

'Strangely – no.'

Luke looked vaguely amused '...What, never?'

'No!'  
'Seriously?'  
'Never.'

'What, not even your dad, when you were little? Not even at Christmas, like, under the mistletoe? Male relatives, that sort of thing?'

'Wh-male relatives? _Like who?_'

'Werll! Take my Uncle Roger. I _say _Uncle, I suppose he was really more of a neighbour. Called Mr Rogers. Nice man. He used to come over to play when me dad was out.'

Luke lowered his reminiscing gaze from the ceiling and looked at the two brothers, jaws hanging. A wicked grin spread over his face, a twinkle dancing in his eyes.

'I had you going then, didn't I?'

Both brothers scoffed unconvincingly, the spell broken.

'What?!' Dean had his face screwed up scornfully. 'No...'

'No way.'

'Me neither.'

'Seriously though, dude,' Dean said, changing the subject and leaning forwards conspiratorially. 'I just talked to three women who want to make out with you...'

Luke peered around Dean to nod and wave at the women in question.

'So?'

'So... what the hell's makin' random women wanna make out with you?'

_And where can I get some? _He didn't add.

'You mean other than my devastating good looks?' Luke snorted. 'Oh, that. That's nothing. I just started a rumour saying I'm a European Rockstar, who has massive diamonds instead of fillins in my back teeth, and some of them're coming out. So. People've been suckin' my face and buying me hard-ice drinks ever since.'

He beamed.

The Winchesters looked at each other.

'A Rockstar?' Sam said, struggling to fit his brain around this latest wild claim – and a little embarrassed that he and Dean had pulled that one once or twice. 'Can you even play an instrument?' (landing on one of the less-moronic and more-printable questions that had popped into his head).

Luke laughed ruefully, shaking his head. 'Oh Sam. Sammy, _Sammy_, Sammy.' (Dean's face tautened) 'There's only one way to answer that.'

Luke disappeared, mysteriously, and Dean (still leaning heavily, on folded arms, on the back of Sam's chair), started to look around speculatively – he had his lips puckered, whistling through them as if psyching himself up. He waved one of his hands (free only from the braceleted wrist up) in the direction of some other women.

'I'm, uh... I'm just gonna... '

He tried to lie and think at the same time – and fell off.

'Sure,' Sam said, nodding and sighing. 'You do that.'

Dean pulled himself up and jogged off.

Feeling strangely... content, and at peace with the world, Sam sipped from his beer, lips bunching out with his tensing jaw. Something like instinct made him feel that someone was watching him – and he looked up at the crowd squeezed in between the tables and booths, where someone had just shuffled the jukeboxes to a Muse song (Supermassive Blackhole).

Sam blinked.

She was standing just behind the first band of people in the crowd, staring, piercingly, right at him – and, somehow, looking exactly like what she was, in cowboy boots: A Vampire. Lenore. Sam sprang to his feet as she beckoned him over, slipping into the crowd (a mass of limbs, of bare flesh and sweat as the people, crammed together, danced).

'_Sam, do you remember me?_' she managed to speak over the noise of the music. '_I need to talk_.'  
'Can we go somewhere quieter?' he asked, stooping down to hear better, with hands up near his head as if he could bat away the noise.

'_No!_' Lenore called back. '_It has to be here! In public. It's not safe for me, on my own._'

They were being buffeted deeper into the mass of people, towards the jukeboxes, thrown closer together. So Lenore took on the pretense of dancing, raising her arms to put her pale wrists on his shoulders (probably one of the few women who could've comfortably reached) and looked sternly up at him, through smoky eyes.

'_I'm here with my nest_,' he half lip-read, squinting through his fringe, not knowing where to put his hands, now. '_But they were attacked_.'

She didn't tell him that she knew who had done the attacking.

'I know!' Sam half-bellowed back, voice taking on strength and a thicker accent, a wall of sound of its own. Luckily, he was sure they wouldn't be overhead. 'There're other hunters here.'

'_Where?_' Lenore shot, spinning around and backing into him.

She had hold of one of his hands, and raised it above both their heads – pretending to be swaying to the music, so he could point. The only one of the Enfields he could see was Morgan, who was leaning against a pool-table, cigarette in an ashtray beside, polishing her cue in a manner which was making her opponent rub the back of his neck, looking faint. So he pointed, and Lenore twisted her head further around, back nestling into his chest, to speak over her shoulder – they were much closer now, so he could hear a little better.

'_She killed the head of another Nest, Rufus_.' She said.

'Was he...?' Sam suddenly found his throat had gone dry. She was very close.  
'Was he like you?'

'_No. He was... he was a bad man. But there were more_-'

'There's another hunter here, too.'

Lenore twisted even more, her eyes level with and focusing on his mouth, an inch away. She raised her hand – under the semblance of holding his face, but actually to cup the sound as he spoke.

'_Where?_'

'I can't see him,' Sammy croaked back. 'Lenore, I think something weird's going on h-'

But Sam never got to finish – because she wasn't listening any more. She had laid her hand, flat, against the side of his face, fingers tickling in his side-burn, eyes focused intensely on his mouth, and started to dance, properly. At first Sammy lifted his hands away, defensively, into the air, eyebrows rising through his fringe in gentlemanly surprise – surprise that Lenore had started to undulate, into him, side to side. So close he could feel her without seeing. Without realizing what he was doing, though, Sam tentatively dropped one of his hands to her hip. So close. Pressed in to rubbing point, by the dancers around them (some of whom were noticing this giant man, gradually starting to ripple, like the tide), that his breath was flickering in her hair. More like a single, moving entity - one whole, rather than two. Her hand was on the side and the nape of his neck, under his hair, where the sweat had cooled his skin, the other hanging onto his belt buckle, behind her back. Locked on.

Lost in a trance of pounding bass, the jukes had it cranked up as loud as it could go – vibrating queasily in his abdomen, in his blood. Why was his heart pounding so hard, so, so fast? He felt outside himself.

Dean was flashing his patented winning smile at a chick by the bar (he was round the corner, where Luke had, earlier, been leaning). He found his eye drawn to the dance-floor, for reasons he couldn't understand. Oh. But he soon did.

A gap had formed in the outskirts of the crowd there, a sliver of those inside the mass of bodies suddenly visible – and Dean did a double-take over his mark's shoulder, fake-smile wavering as he recognized. _Sammy? _Among them, with a... pretty damn womanly woman... pressed right up against him, ass-to-crotch, bumpin' and grindin'. He didn't know who she was – she had her face turned over her shoulder, into Sammy's, so that her dark hair fell across it. The hand he could see (he didn't want to think about the other one) was on Sam's neck, but dropped – faltering on his torso as it fell – until landing on his, big, hand, resting on the bare skin of her hip, above her jeans.

With the kind of moves they were making, lose the clothes, and they could've been doin it right there.

'_I'll be damned..._'

He had no idea his little brother even knew how to move like that, the sly dog.  
So he did have hips, and not just a friggin huge pelvis, after all.

Damn.

Dean felt a genuine grin of enjoyment and begrudging pride forming on his face (his mark flushed happily, thinking herself the source) and licked his lips, forcing himself to look back to her but definitely keeping an eye trained on the Nu-Chippendale.

The music cut out, abruptly, and Sam blinked in shock as he realized where he was, and what he was doing. Lenore seemed just as shaken. She stepped away, backed away from him, with distrust in her eyes, and slipped through the cheering, whooping revelers.

'S-a-am, you sly dog!' a familiar voice crowed, behind him, making him jump out of his skin.  
Dean cackled at the look of abject embarrassment on Sam's face.

'Man, I don't know _what _Luke told you, but it obviously worked!'

Sam was just about to snap that Luke hadn't told him anything he didn't already know when Luke himself interrupted.

'Evenin' all. I, err, fck, how does this thing work?'

They gazed at each other. It was echoing down from the open doorway in one corner of the bar, where people had started to swarm. The Winchesters followed. Upstairs, they found a room, big as the bar – the interior of another of the mill buildings – but empty of boots and seats, so more spacious, crammed to bursting-point full of people. All the people they had been stuck with, originally, in the crowd outside. It had a stage at one end, where-

'Oh, you gotta be _kiddin' _me,' Dean groaned.

-where Luke was. On-stage, behind the mike, standing turtle and strapped into a red Les Paul guitar. The tie which had been holding his hair back (now down and wild, in a mane of waves) acting as a wristband on his frett-hand. Somewhere along the way, in the sweltering heat of so many bodies packed together, he had lost his t-shirt. Unsurprising, really. Looking like Kurt Kobain's younger, gayer brother – androgynous as Bowie – he was tuning as he spoke, scratched his thumb to his forehead, and the women in the crowd perked up some, the men eying this newcomer warily.

What made them really stop and stare, though, was the fact that Morgan was standing there, cigarette drooping from her lips, right alongside him.

She had picked up the bass, was dropping the black band over her head even as they watched, rubbing her nose with the side of her hand – because her fingers were busy holding the pleck – and tossing her black hair out of her eyes as she examined the strings. The way she was holding the guitar, low over her legs, made the sleeves of her dress fall down over her shoulders, elephant-hairs hanging low on her wrists. The slit in the skirts of it exposed a stretch of dark leg as she stood, feet far apart, in her standard "fck off, I'm a rocker" pose.

'_Damn.'_ Dean thought. Again. He couldn't really think of anything else to cover it.

No one, apart from the ousted band and the two Winchesters, was paying the Enfields any attention.

Luke had his back to the Winchesters, talking to his sister and the remaining band members – notably the drummer – motioning at the instruments and covering the mike with one hand. He looked completely relaxed and at home. Not at all like someone who had, only the night before, decapitated a dozen or more horrific monsters, say. Conversation apparently resolved, he turned back to face the room and caught sight of the two brothers, standing, as they were, in front of the bar, on the opposite side of the room.

He snatched up the mike.

'Evenin', boys and girls,' he spoke into it. 'I'm Luke, I'm new in town, from Europe, this is my sister Morgan, and together we are _The Helsingers_. First set of the night, and it's a request. Any takers?'

Unfortunately, at that moment, the sound of the jukeboxes from down below filtered up, as there was a lull in the conversation... they were playing Cry Me A River, and everyone (seeing that Luke had just royally buggered himself) burst into laughter.

'Dude, that sucks!!' some frightfully-articulate guy from the back shouted out.

Oh dear.

Luke never could back down from a challenge.

Five minutes later, they finished playing Cry Me A River.

A rock cover.

Luke improvising extraordinary, apocalyptic guitar-solos whenever he could manage. It was obviously, instantly, _astoundingly_ apparent that he was a gifted musician. It... people in the crowd were going insane before he'd finished his first song, trading breathlessly excited looks, thinking "_what the hell is this we've found?_" Luke on stage was overwhelmingly charismatic, spell-bindingly, just-you-try-to-tear-your-eyes-away Magic. He was beautiful in daylight, but in The Big Lights, he was more vital than at any point during the hunt, _this_ was where he really lived,_ this _was where the real Gift was. Utterly, effortlessly untouchable. And it did Morgan's heart good to see.

The music and his one song glory died out, and was replaced with a bellowing, ear-buffeting wall of sound: the applause. A slow, cocky smile spread across Luke's face, his eyes glazed over in thought for a second, in thought, and then?

Then, he _really _started to play...

_A couple of hours later..._

A fire-exit on the side of the bar cranked open, sound and heat blasted out into the alleyway beyond, and the two Winchester brothers emerged, breath misting, stepping out into the refreshingly-cold night air. A gaggle of young women, giggling, squeezed past them (Dean, of course, paused to check each one out... and frowned when he failed to get a single glance in return).

The scene revealed in the open doorway, before it swung shut, was intoxicating.

There was a sparkling quality to the light inside, as if everything was being viewed through the bottom of a bottle (and, in a way, it was). All the tables had been pushed aside, and people were crowded into the open space in between, arms swaying in the air – near the stage especially... where an even-more-relaxed Luke was standing, tucking his now-loosened hair behind his ears, bending over to try and hear what the women in the front row were screaming. Morgan was beside him, arms jigging rhythmically as her fingers found the chords, and only she looked up as the Winchesters left.

The door snapped shut with a hiss of air and the sounds of laughter and music rolled back in on themselves, muffled.

Sam and Dean stopped and stared at each other, struck dumb, lost for words. Dean jerked a thumb over his shoulder, tried to speak, and failed. They both traded an awed look, shook their heads, and started walking down the alley to the street.

'I gotta hand it to ya, Sammy – when you make friends? You _really _pick 'em.'

'Yeah,' Sam nodded, smiling gingerly. 'He's... he's something else, alright.'

'And Morgan? Oof!' Dean continued, closing his eyes as he thought of her. He raised his arms to the sky as they turned to move down the alley. 'She drinks, she smokes, she swears – and she plays the bass – Sammy, we have _got _to go to Europe!'

Sam had to laugh – Dean only called him "Sammy" this much when he was drunk.

'You're in a good mood.'

'I can't help it,' Dean beamed, pointing jauntily. 'I have a good feeling about those two.'

'You've changed your tune.'

'Hey, speaking of tunes, did you see him playing guitar?'

'I know.'

'He was playing Zeppelin!' Dean spluttered.

'I know.'

'_Without looking down!_'

'I know, Dean, I was there!'

They walked on a few more paces in silence, and Dean's smile tightened and fell, feeling uncomfortable on his his face – it seemed that his euphoria faded the further away he got from the bar, an invisible force-field of feel-good. Sam could tell, from the way he was swinging his arms and striding along, that something was now bothering Dean – and, sure enough:

'How is he _doing _it?!' His brother burst.

'Who? Doing what?'

'The – the hunting, Sam! Obi-Waning that cop, the – the amazing stories, the music-'

'I don't know.' Sam shrugged inside his coat. 'Practice?' (this earned him a dirty look) 'What?' Sam laughed. 'It is possible, Dean, maybe the guy's just talented...?'

'No... no way man. No one's that good.'

A few more paces...

'I don't believe it!' Sam said, awed, as a thought struck him.

Dean, nonplussed, found himself the subject of amused scrutiny. 'What?'

'You're actually jealous.'

'Of what?'

'Of Luke!'

Dean screwed up his face in scorn. 'Whaat?!' he slurred. 'No way...'

'Yeah you are,' Sam crowed. 'You're jealous of a guy who's – what – four years younger than you?'

'Whatever, Sam,' Dean said, trying to effect disinterest. 'I know what I feel.'

'Okay,' Sam conceded, spreading the hands inside his pockets wide. 'But, as far as I can make out, you have nothing to be jealous of. Luke's just a regular guy.'

Dean raised a skeptical eyebrow. 'Apart from the hunting?'

'Apart from the hunting...' Sam agreed. 'Which you would be able to tell,' starting to grin. 'You know... if you weren't so jealous...?'

Dean glared as they emerged from the alley onto the street.

'Look, Sam, I'm being serious, alright? You shoulda heard the way Morgan was talking about him, man – somethin's not right.'

'What d'you mean?'

'I mean she was practically warning me off him, Sam! Telling me how dangerous he is!'

'Maybe she was just being protective?'

Dean considered it, but clicked his tongue.

'Nah... I'm not buyin' it. There's something weird about this family, Sam. I can feel it. I mean, how long did it take us to find that damn nest? He shows up, and he hits the jackpot? And he kills fourteen vampires, without any weapons? That's jacked up!'

They had reached the car, where it was parked on the deserted street, and Sam, standing outside his door, shifted uneasily.

'Well, when I asked him about it, he said he couldn't tell me _how _he did that, said that it was a family secret.'

Dean scoffed. 'Right... of course! Dude kills fourteen vampires, then goes to a bar, downs half their stock and puts on a show! Obviously he wants to play it below the radar...'

'I'm just telling you what he told me, Dean.'

They got into the car, the doors groaning torturedly, and Dean paused to think for a second as he held his keys.

'How can he do that?' he asked, thinking out-loud, frowning and staring at the steering-wheel. 'How is it possible that he can travel hundreds of miles to get here, stay up all day, kill vampires all night, barely sleep, and still be up now? And still awake-enough to play that kind of music?'

Sam drummed his fingers on the open window of his door. 'I don't know Dean,' he sighed for the umpteenth time.

His brother shook his head, as if shaking off the thoughts buzzing round his mind, and plugged the keys into the ignition, easing out onto the road.

'I'm telling you, Sam – if I didn't know any better, I'd swear he-' Dean froze. 'Sam?'

Dean turned, shock widening his eyes, and looked for his younger brother. '..._Sam?_'

His door was open, swinging in the wind, and something bumped under the tires...

'_SAMMY!_'

Dean hurled the impala round with a wrench at the wheel, tires were squealing and screaming all around as other drivers fought to avoid the huge black muscle car, carving its arch in a skid across the road. As soon as – no, even before – the car had stopped moving, Dean threw himself out of his door and onto the road. Where Sam- where Sam was staggering, blinded, into the path of an on-coming truck. To Sam, the glaring, painful lights of the city were flaring like fireworks in his head, jabbing painful fingers into his already-pounding skull, it felt like nails being hammered through his temple. His sinuses were burning, searing, eyes watering. Pain, unbearable _pain_.

Dean threw himself forwards, swearing.

_Just _as the truck was sailing past, in a scream of indignant horn, something _slammed _into Sam – the blare of the horn bellowing in his ears, so close he could feel the iciness of its slipstream. Hard arms were closing like a vice around his chest, he was being caught, bowled over, thrown sideways, people were screaming. Sam was rolling so fast he thought he'd left his stomach behind, his teeth jarring with the suddenness of it. He was colliding with something hard, skidding across the frozen sidewalk at the unchecked momentum, felt his weight cushioned by something soft – which grunted at the impact.

The noise, the screaming, squealing of brakes, blaring horns, roar of engines, people shouting, died down.

'Dude,' a familiar voice groaned, right behind his ear. 'You weight a _tonne.'_

Dean pushed Sam off himself, wincing as he rubbed a hand over his aching ribs. He was winded, and pissed, but Sam was alive! As Dean pulled himself to his feet, a round of applause broke out – there were people standing on the other side of the road, all around, whooping and clapping his heroism, making noises of admiration and approval. Dean's face dissolved into his breathlessly-pleased "Why yes, I Am A Big Damn Hero" grin. Didn't last for long, though. He almost forgot Sam was there, for a second.

To Sam, the lights of the night sky - just visible through the curtains of cloud above – wheeled and quivered, dancing heavenly polka dots, as Dean's face (seeming huge in comparison, when set against the stars) swam into view, staring down at him. Worried, frantic, panting.

'Sammy? Y'okay?'

He managed to nod, despite the steady, dull ache in his head, the grip of his vision fading. Sam felt familiar hands hooking into the labels of his hood-jacket, and the stars wheeled past again, dropped and fell abruptly into the lights of the city street, as Dean yanked him to his feet. The two brothers hung onto each other while he got his balance back – for whose sake, for whose peace of mind, wasn't clear.

'Let me guess,' Dean asked him in an undertone, nodding again at the onlookers to tell them the show was over. 'Vision?'

'Yeah,' Sam swallowed, swaying on his feet. There was a sheen of sweat on his face, shining on his top-lip, despite the cold, and Dean decided not to press his luck.

Grabbing Sammy's wrist, unselfconsciously, he looped it round his shoulders and helped his little brother stagger back to the passenger-side of the impala. Sam collapsed gratefully onto the seat, dropping his arm slowly from Dean's shoulders as if pained, the weak wobbling, the lolling back of his head, stretching his neck. He swallowed again. Seeing this, Dean paused after he'd shut the door, snaking a hand through the open window to hold Sam's shoulder, make sure he could stay upright – to just... y'know... - and Sam, eyes sliding feverishly sideways, nodded at him. A wordless confirmation that, yeah, he was alright. Dean nodded, swallowing himself, withdrew his hand and jogged around the trunk to the driving side. He allowed himself a shaky sigh, as he rounded the trunk, while Sam couldn't see.

They sat in silence after he'd gotten in, before pulling out onto the road again.

Sam watched the little scene of bright lights, through his low eyelashes – the stalled vehicles, stunned people, disgruntled drivers – retreating into darkness in the wing-mirror, feeling oddly like an inmate being rescued from the asylum.

As they left the scene, emerged onto quieter streets, Dean gulped down, hard – scowling angrily out over the wheel as he battled with conflicting emotions. He shifted agitatedly in his seat, one elbow propped up on the window, rubbing a hand through his hair as he came back down, from being freaked out. Glaring, so he wouldn't have to deal.

Then again, he could already sense himself stamping down on all that crap

Scared, actually scared – which was always an unnerving, annoying experience, when he was so used to _not _being easily phased. Relieved, that he hadn't had to feel his own wheels jolting over Sammy's body (damn, he could still hear the bump of the curb, echoing round his head). Irrational anger – 'cause who the hell could he blame for these stupid visions? Sam? No way. Although he did have the urge to slap him upside the head for scaring him like that. And, of course, there was that awful, empty ache in his gut, because anything to do with these visions reminded him of the first time he'd seen what they could do, back in Lawrence.

He'd felt like he was falling, when Sam had told him – the whole world a rug unraveling beneath his feet. He remembered calling dad, _desperately _calling dad – for all the goddamn good it had done – and the way he'd felt his entire body shiver and tingle, meeting mom again... and the way it was all jacked up, all bitter and twisted and ruined, because she was _just a spirit_. Not really there, not really mom, alive again. Because Dad had actually let him down. Twice, now, dumping this crap on him. He hated the idea, that- that he might one day have to... more than he could stomach, more than he could possibly ever hope to express or contain. But what he hated even more was almost seeing the decision snatched out of his hands, made for him, this feeling of futility he got. Angry, frustrated, and trapped. Because Sam Had Visions, and there was _nothing _he could do about it.

Damnit. Just when everything was going so good! And he could actually learn to forget – back they fcking came! It always felt, too, like he should've seen it coming. As if, the second it happened, he must've missed some sign – something which wouldn't have made it such a goddamn nasty surprise. He never felt so helpless, so in need of Dad, as he did when Sammy went weak, right before his eyes. Which was humiliating, 'cause Dad wasn't here, and couldn't have helped Sam, even if he was. Dean didn't want to need him, either. Not after... after...

Dean sighed and turned the wheel.

Sitting next to him, slumped exhaustedly in his seat, his younger Sam's hollow eyes – warily regarding his big brother – dropped, his disappointment shining in a wash of tears, the waterfall over the mouth of an empty cave.

Born from the sting of cold night air, in the window, maybe. Or the searing in his temples and sinuses, that receding headache. Or from his own upset. He was flooded with shame, heating his freezing cheeks, as sharp and cutting as if he'd wet himself, in public. Shame at what he was, at the jolt of fear he'd felt, a gasp of frigid air drawn into his lungs. It was an humiliation – caused him this pain, frightened everyone. Every time his freak nature put Dean through the wringer, forced him to come to his rescue. Dean wasn't looking at him, because they both knew he wouldn't be able to keep that 'look' off his face – kind of wary and expectant, as if Sam was about to sprout horns, or a second head. Looking at him like he didn't even know him any more. What scared Sam most was the knowledge that it... it might be true, one day. Even thinking about it made him want to curl up and die. And he was dreading what he had to tell Dean, once he asked about his vision. And of course, on the edge of it all, lurking at the fringes of his thoughts, the dreadful, encroaching certainty – leeching all the hope from him – that, one day, just like dad said...

'_Death doesn't follow me around_,' Sam thought numbly. '_I **am **Death. I take it with me where ever I go. It's taken everything Dean ever had..._' He let his eyes slide sideways once more to his big brother's form. '_You don't believe you can save me, any more than I do, do you...? And... what if... what I'm not worth saving, anyway?_'

Of course, Sam forgot that his big brother hadn't lost _everything _he held dear.

Dean cleared his throat, uneasily, and Sam jerked his eyes away.

'So,' Dean rumbled. 'What'd you see?'

'...Morgan,' Sam murmured, huskily, in his throat. 'Dying.'

Dean did look around at this – and, yup, there was the wary expectancy, re-evaluating Sammy as he stared. Not in the way Sam thought, though – Dean was taking in the dark curls of hair, plastered to his face where it met his feverish sweat, the way Sam was shaking all over as if he'd just run a mile, drawing deep breaths which took all the swell of his chest he could manage, and the way he was struggling to keep his head up. Realizing he was staring, Dean returned his attention to the road, eyes shifting restlessly across the asphalt. There was a softened expression in them.

'Tell me about it when we get back to the motel...' he muttered, gruffly.

A little smile twitched on Sam' face, despite everything.

He was grateful...


	7. Chapter 17: Hanging On The Wire

**Chapter 17: Hanging On The Wire**

'Luke,' Morgan growled. 'D'you think you could make yourself any more bleedin' obvious?'

Luke stopped, in drinking his beer – he was well into double-figures now – and turned to Morgan, standing next to him on stage. She had one foot propped up on the wedges in front of them – necessary, 'cause Luke didn't _do_ sensible when it came to volume, the woofers in the speakers behind were pounding as if a giant were punching them from behind. She wasn't looking at him, but scowling out over the heads of their audience – although he could tell it was she who had spoken. She had that special, deep n' dangerous tone of voice which carried well despite the roar of the crowd – just far enough for him to hear.

'What d'you mean?' he asked, radiating innocence.

Morgan treated him to a withering glance, a sister's prerogative. 'In the last half hour, we've played Some Kind of Monster, Black Dog, Evil Walks, Of Wolf And Man, and _Bad Moon Rising_...'

Luke sniggered, nearly coughing up his drink. 'Your point being...?'

They had to play the classics, because they were the only things the other band members could be relied upon to know. So it was all AC/DC, Bad CO., Styx, Black Sabbath, UFO, Rush & Joe Walsh & Billy Squier (for the rockabilly crowd), Metallica, and (leaving them all in the dust), Luke's favourite – Zeppelin.

'My point being,' Morgan continued. 'You've already invited hunters into our motel-room, why don't you finish off the day by drawing a big fcking pair of targets on our backs? That'd round it off nicely...'

Luke replaced his beer on top of the amp, and grinned to himself, shaking his head.

'Oh, Morgy, Morgy. I can tell something's bothering you-'

'How about this bloody crowd, for starters? If it gets any more emo it's going to suffocate on its own hairspray. Let's just go, alright?'

Luke chortled at his sister's acerbity, but then cried out in protest.

'Go? Hell no! I haven't pulled yet!'

'So?'

Luke turned his back on her to snatch up the mike. He glanced around the bar and apparently picked a woman.

'So...' He turned back, with a supremely confident shrug and a barely-suppressed smile. 'Give it another ten minutes, sis...'

The crowd seemed to welcome Luke's return to singing (Morgan could tell by the way they whooped and screamed and risked the need for some serious eye-surgery by punching horns-gestures into the air). He had the kind of raw, belting, throaty voice – surprisingly at odds with his pretty-boy appearance – which suited rock, although he was musical, you could hear by the melodiousness in his voice every time a song required actual talent. He had that Robert Plant sweetness and scream. She could see him going from "damn, he's hot" in the eyes of the women in the audience to "the second he gets off I'm not letting him leave", _just_ restraining themselves from jumping on him and the stage.

But, oh, hell yes. This was what she needed. It was fun, actual _fun._

Morgan also noticed that Luke was shooting smiles at the two barkeeps. One brunette, stunningly sweet smile, and one a nice-looking blond. Under different circumstances they might've been tidy women for _her _to talk to, but whenever she stumbled across a potential friend, Luke got there first, assuring that any interaction she had with them always revolved around _them _asking _her _questions about _him_. Git. One girl was performing acrobatically spectacular bottle-twirls and throws, trying to catch his eye, and the other had been standing there – blushing and polishing the same glass – for the last half hour.

Morgan sighed, but carried on playing. She noticed a definite trend in the songs Luke was belting out, too – American Woman, Round & Round, Let Me Put My Love Into You, and Hot-Blooded. Luke took a break, to readjust his shoulder strap (and, of course, finish his beer).

'I don't believe you...' Morgan muttered, and he looked at her sideways.

'What? They're good songs!'

'They're a _pimp's soundtrack _is what they are...'

Luke cracked a smile and uncovered the mike – cradling it in his hands in a vaguely sensual, indecent way – so that his hair fell forwards in tousled strands:

'Last song of the night, folks,' he breathed into it, sexily (to much moaning and booing.) 'Hahah. I know, I know. But this one's going out to a pair of very special ladies-' Here he sighted across the room, smiling, and pointed. '-Sandy, Tanya. Give it up for the bar-keeps, everyone! Anyway,' he smiled '-this one's for you...'

He struck out at the guitar gently, starry intro, warped into something else by the amps. No sign of clumsiness here, he was absolutely in his element. Wondering what he was about to start, Morgan froze... and then recognised the starry intro, joined in the chords she knew should be coming from the bass. When Luke started singing, he was letting his voice be natural, deep and whispery (she could see women in the front row closing their eyes, shivering). She recognised it, because Luke always said it was her song.

'_Her ghost hides, in my mind,_' Luke sang. '_In the night, in a way, she's haunting me._..'

'_Great_,' she thought, but her heart was swelling with it, too. '_My brother, the rent-boy..._' and joined in the chorus...

Credit where it was due though, baby bro did have the crowd (and, she suspected, barkeeps) eating out of the palm of his hand. He had them singing the chorus and back-up just by cupping a hand around his ear and smiling when they got it right. And these weren't all kids they were playing to. Morgan could see a massive bald redneck, near the back – in plaid and bike chains – who had a beard you could lose a bush in, and tats just as dense, harmonizing gospel like he'd just come off James Brown's entourage. She shook her head. That was Luke for you...

He rounded off the song, smiled modestly ("poser!" she muttered) at the applause, and stepped back from the mike.

Morgan thought they were done, and swung her body round to unplug the amp – but then she heard a scream of delight and spun back to see that Luke had thrown himself onto the swaying hands. They were crowd-surfing him across the room to the bar where he– 'Oh, for crying out loud, boy...!' she groaned – where he placed his hands on its flat water-stained surface, as if he was doing a press-up, and, still held up by the crowd, French kissed both barkeeps in turn.

The crowd, ever the stupid appreciate-anything types, went nuts with wolf-whistles and cat-calls, and even more horns-gestures – from all the men quite relieved he'd picked someone they weren't with. Luke had his legs let down, which (oh tragedy), forced him to stop sucking face. He jumped up and down, hyper-actively, in the air, grinning like an idiot the whole time. He stood up, waved his arms in the air - 'Goodnight everyone! Come to Europe! We rock!' - ran down behind the crowd, leapt, crashed into the stairwell, and was gone.

And that, ladies & gents, was the end of the musical festivities for that evening...

The barkeeps, who were giggling with each other, blinking dazedly and patting their hair, called time – they were open way past the legal limit, something else Luke seemed to carry with him in bars wherever he went – and the euphorically-smiling listeners started to file out. Morgan paid no attention to any of this, however, as she had just spotted a familiar face among the crowd. It was that of a young girl, couldn't have been out of her teens, with fair hair and a lot of pink on. She was talking animatedly to her friends, all of whom looked underage:

'I swear! She is, like, hard-core!' Morgan thought she heard her say, as she left. 'She was in my room, last night and she so totally ended this guy!'

'Whatever, Cathy...'

'No! I swear! She carried him out in, I think it was a tennis bag?'

Morgan raised her eyebrows, as the door swung shut on their adenoidal conversation.

Hmm. Good to know she'd had some positive influence in the area.

As she was helping the band pack up their things (they had stayed around to glare, at first, but then been so impressed they were now raving at her instead of paying attention to their own damn stuff), Morgan heard a fire-escape door clank open and the jaunty footsteps of Luke as he re-entered.

He spent the half hour while they were packing up leaning over the bar, whispering probably-not-very- sweet nothings into the two women's ears, and then called:

'Hey, sis, need a hand packing up?'

Morgan glared.

'What, with this very-heavy microphone stand, which is all that's left? No thank you, Elvis...'

'Cool. Well, me and Sandy and Tanya are off, see you tomorrow. Hey, you couldn't lock up the bar for 'em, could you?'

Morgan looked up just in time to avoid being blinded by the large set of heavy keys which her brother threw at her face, and gazed murderously at his back, as he and the giggling bar-keeps, groping him all over, staggered out of the front. Well, on the plus-side, at least Lo wasn't around any more. She'd have to sort him out, at some point. Morgan turned back to face the stage and found the remaining members of the band, all hunched over things about to be picked up, and all staring at her. She realised she had ceased being a hot-chick once she started played the bass, which was the reason she'd got into it in the first place.

'What?' she prompted.

'Is he for real?' one of them asked.

Morgan sighed. She had a habit of doing that, around Luke.

'Yes, boys, unfortunately, he is.'

'Wow...' Awed glances. 'Is everyone from Europe like that?'

Morgan laughed darkly. 'Try popping into Amsterdam when you're down there.'

'Really?'

Morgan nodded. 'Hell of a place. The _things _I've seen done with marzipan...'

The band-members had thoughtful, if puzzled, looks on their faces as she shunted them towards the door.

Morgan followed them downstairs, into the ground-floor bar. She took the takings and locked them away in a box, (inside a safe she found in the back-room). She checked all the doors and windows were locked, returned to the dark, cavernous, empty room, littered with trash, and started putting glasses down on the shelves, underneath the counter. Actually, bugger this, she wasn't some bloody 50s housewife. She did a circuit of the bar, collecting empties off the tables, and was leaning over the counter again, to tuck these away, when something made her freeze. The hairs on the back of her neck were standing up on end, that old familiar shiver, telling her she wasn't alone. Morgan stared, unimpressed, at the gleaming bottles, standing opposite her. She eased her feet back to the floor, feeling the reassuring weight, next to her leg, of her beretta. Her feet touched down, she span around, gun out, and saw-

Nothing.

No one there.

Morgan swallowed, still tense.

Silence.

The silence of an empty room.

Empty, except for one complete tit who'd just pulled a gun on thin air. Morgan snorted, shaking her head in self-deprecating humour, and put her piece away.

'Thank you Jim,' she muttered.

She finished her job, and moved to the front door – pausing only to retrieve another bottle from behind the bar, on the house. She was sure Lo wouldn't mind. She moved out onto the now-deserted car-park, locked the tricky bar door behind herself, and- Morgan froze again. From where she was standing, in the car-park, she could count the number of vehicles there – but there was on in particular which caught her eye. It was a black Buick, maybe a grand national, but what was most interesting was its window: where a spider's-web of cracks were fanning out, like city blossom, across its smooth surface – from the ragged hole.

Morgan dug out her phone, hurriedly, urgently, punching at the digits of Luke's number. It went straight to answer, she kicked the wall in exasperation, annoyance, and settled for plugging a text message into hers instead. Hopefully, that would do it. Luckily, Luke was not the type to pass up an opportunity to spend the night with the two women, she doubted he'd be going anywhere near Lo tonight. Thank God. They'd have to talk, about and to, him tomorrow. Morgan strode off, pressing a new number into her phone – a cab company's. Which was a waste of their hard-earned money, already, but what was a woman to do?

And in the shadows which lay, heavy and looming, inside the vacated bar, someone stepped silently out...

Lenore heaved a sigh, catching her uneasily-quivering breath as she did so. That was too close - a mere matter of feet between her and a strange hunter. She shouldn't have stayed around this late, waiting to see if the Doc lingered long enough for her to corner him. Staring discerningly through the gloom, for an escape route, she broke out through a back window, high enough that any human wouldn't think of trying it, or find themselves capable. She had just clambered back into her pickup truck, parked around the corner, when she felt it: something which made her turn her head. It was the sense of movement, just beyond her field of vision, in the corner of her eye.

Searching for it, she saw – too late – the gleam of street-light on metal, as someone dropped their foot to kick-start a motorcycle. The vampires, nearly all of them, burst from the mouth of the alley in a roar of gunning excitement, as if it was a raging beast and they the spewing breath.

Lenore wrenched at the key in the ignition, the engine stuttered and died, and her sharp eldritch nose, sending alarm-signals to her brain, suddenly informed her that there was the stink of familiar vampires all over the hood and cab. Apparently, not all so understanding of her differing stance on human relations.

Lenore fell from the driver's seat, keys jangling in her frightened fingers, slammed the door, turned, and _ran_.

By the time they got back to the motel room, Dean was _willing_ every second not to pass, dreading that moment when he'd _have_ to get ensnared in another web of future events and consequences. He watched Sam, warily, as he got out of the passenger side – having further to walk before they could get back to their room. He also kept a careful eye on him as they moved to make their way up the groaning staircase, cutting his eyes in constant search of any aid he could give, any help Sam wouldn't verbalize a need for. Dean sighed as his brother limped, unaided, past him, dragging his feet up step by step. He practically _hugged_ the door in relief when they got to the top.

Dean opened the room door, threw off his jacket, and his keys – onto the dresser – and looked up at the thump of Sam pirouetting on the spot and landing, flat on his back, in bed. Hands up, under his bangs. Dean padded across to the table, on the other side of him, pulled out a chair, and sat, exhaustedly.

'Alright...' He said, knowing they both _wished_ he didn't have to. 'So, tell me... what'd you see?'

Sam pushed himself blearily upright, in a rush of breath, nodding solemnly – and began...

The moon was fat, blinding white, an opalescent eye, staring balefully down on the scene and setting a pool of its lidless light across the grainy surface of the asphalt, a set stage. Its pitiless gaze fell on the woman's form, slumped in a huddle of limbs, on her back, head thrown back. Abandoned... or apparently not. The moonlight was also gleaming off the golden head of another familiar figure, as he stood over her, and then knelt on top, shuffling her body up into one of his hands. The other he dug into his sneaker, under his torn jeans, where a black sheath split, and flashed with the blade of a hidden knife – slim, sharp, a razor-sweet edge.

He and Dean were there, standing by, near, looking at each other, utterly bemused.

'Dean! This is it! This is what I saw!' Sam heard himself say, inside his own head, a hitch-hiker inside his own body. Dean-in-the-future was staring at him, frowning, as pissed and disorientated as the real-Dean would've been to find himself suddenly thrown into the future.

'But...' Sam said again. 'That would mean-'

Luke paused, panting with exertion, and glanced up at that watching eye in the sky, through ragged strands of hair, tossed and knotted – as if asking permission for something, psyching himself up for something. He muttered something to himself, in that language Sam didn't understand – and then he took the knife, hefted it in his hand, took a deep breath, and stabbed Morgan in the chest. He worked the blade right in, you could see from the motion of his elbow, to the hilt, even sawed down and slid it out. As cold and clinical as you could ever imagine, hacking her heart to pieces inside her own chest.

Sam could hear his own breath gasping in his head, haggardly, as he and Dean yelled and leapt forwards – too late – they threw up their hands as street-lamps all around started to explode in showers of sparks: fusing, glowing, boiling white-hot, and (as whatever power was reaching them grew too much) _bursting_ like over-ripe fruit from the bough. The light was blinding, incredible, too white, so bright it, if possible, made a _sound_ – a high, keen, ringing note. It washed over their ears and eyes and minds – and when it left, the night came flooding back, closing in with soft black wings, muffling that jarring note: almost protectively.

Wings which closed on Luke, crawling away on all fours, off his sister's body.

'...And that's what I saw,' Sam finished, voice heavy, haunted by ghosts of emotion.

His words fell like tomb-stones into the empty room, every one another hammer on a coffin-nail, and Dean was being...very quiet. Sitting on a chair nearby, lips parted, staring at the floor, eyebrows raising a tired groove in his forehead, as if at the unfairness of it all. He had a look on his face which suggested he was watching his whole night go up in smoke. He tried to speak, didn't seem to know how to attack it.

'Dean-'

'Let's! Just – think about this for a sec.' Dean got abruptly to his feet, as if stung, pacing back and fore. It took him another try before he could get the words out. 'So... You're saying Luke just..._stabs _her? His own sister?'

'Yeah,' Sam confirmed, speaking in the back of his throat. God, he was _so tired._

'And y_ou're sure_ it was Luke?'

'Dean... my visions have never been wrong before.'

His brother grimaced. 'Son of a _bitch!_'

He took a bitterly-felt swing at the table, and stalked restlessly back and fore. He looked just like a caged animal, confined by the space they were in, resenting everything else in it simply because he was stuck there – almost making Sam feel like he was angry with _him,_ though he knew that wasn't the case.

Dean slowed, one hand on his hip, the other gesturing. 'Well... your weirdo visions're always connected to the yellow-eyed demon, somehow, right?' He went on, thinking out loud. 'So, did ya see anything weirdOther than the obvious...'

'Yeah,' Sam nodded. 'There was this – white light. _Really _bright. Like, when a spirit moves on, that kinda bright.'

'So, what... You're thinking it was _Morgan's _spirit?'

Sam replied with only a raise of the eyebrows, dimples popping into life as he pressed his lips together, and Dean sat again, in a rush, scrubbing a hand through his hair in exasperation as he took this silently in.

'Son-of-a-_bitch..._'

Sam came to rest on the edge of his bed, long drainpipe legs propping up his hands, and Dean eyed him quizzically.

'Dean, we've gotta go.' He explained, looking up earnestly through his bangs. 'We've got to find her, tell her-'

'Tell her what?! That she's gonna _die_? That her only brother's gonna tear her a new one 'cause of some freaky psychic-_vision _you had? I don't think so, Sam!'

He was on his feet again.

Sam's immediate, irrational feeling was that his brother didn't believe him – but he stamped down on that hurtful thought, straight away. Dean had trouble believing in anything he couldn't see, sure, but he always gave him the benefit of the doubt, no questions asked. So. It must've been that he didn't w_ant_ to believe. _Here it starts, _Sam realized numbly. It's already changed from "stop Luke killing Morgan" to "keep _me _safe". Any other circumstances, he'd be slapping a clip on his colt already, saying "alright, Sammy, let's go waste this son-of-a-bitch" – and I'd have to talk him down. But _I have a vision_, and suddenly it's all erring on the side of caution. You're more panicked by the prospect of me being found out than you are about Morgan getting hurt. And you're pretty pissed about _that_. Just like Oregon.

'You're wrong.' Sam murmured.

'...About what?'

'For starters,' Sam pointed, 'my visions aren't always about the Demon. Remember? I had a vision in Crater Lake, and nothing happened.' The silent glare from Dean suggested he'd always have trouble forgetting Crater Lake. That room, that fence, that fight. 'And about Luke,' Sam continued, looking away as he spoke. 'He isn't Morgan's only brother, remember? They have that other guy – Jonah.'

Dean was speechless, utterly wrong-footed by the, frigging, _irrelevance _of Sam's comment. A geek to the end. Dean rubbed at his eyes, struggling to gain the upper-hand in their argument.

'Look, Sam, all I know is: we go anywhere _near _Luke, without proof, and Morgan's gonna introduce us to her girls again – and I don't mean the fun kind!'

'So what _do _we do?' Sam's hands slapped onto his legs again as he let them fall.

'We stick around,' Dean suggested, sounding firm, but not meaning to be bossy. 'Work on the case, get that done, and in the meantime, we keep an eye on her.'

'For how long?'

'Until we know she's safe.'

'And what if they try to leave? Should we... split up, one of us stay here, one of us go with her-'

'No!' Dean contradicted, instantly. 'No chance! We're staying together.'

'What if they get suspicious?'

'I don't know, Sam!' Dean snapped, throwing out his hands. 'We'll cross that bridge when we get to it! _Jesus_, do I have to think of everything? Isn't it enough that _I'm _gonna end up wastin' the guy?'

Sam lowered his suddenly-big eyes penitently, stunned. Feeling bad for making his brother shout. Dean's frown and contorted mouth slackened as his ears caught up with his frustration. Feeling like a jerk for it, the second he bit Sam's head off (and surprised at himself, which was worse), Dean shook his head, eyed his hangdog little brother uncertainly. He heaved a shaky sigh, his big chest and shoulders rising with it, and took another hesitant pace or two as he steeled himself to: 'Hey-'

'It's okay.' Sam interrupted, drawing the corners of his mouth down, in pretended indifference. 'We're both tired. Strung out.'

'Huh... Tell me about it,' Dean confirmed in a mutter, rubbing his suddenly-aching temples bracingly as he sat. Again. He waited for the tension to dissipate a little, as it always did – 'cause Sam could always forgive him anything. It was one of his most annoying traits, and, fortunately, one of the ones he could throw right back.

'Well, you know, for now,' Dean said in an undertone, not making eye-contact. 'I think we should just go on stake-out, wait up until they come back, and then... find some way to keep watch.'

Trying to lighten the mood, Sammy started with a twitch of the eyebrows, lashes fluttering as he gave Dean's mission statement some thought. 'Easier said than done.'

'Right,' Dean admitted. He looked over his shoulder, across the table, at the little fridge standing behind him, in the kitchen-ette. 'So, if we're on stake-out, we're gonna need two things.'

'Beer and pizza?' Sam hazarded.

'_Beer and pizza_,' Dean agreed, with an inclination of the head. He dug in the fridge, and drew out a pair of Samuel Adams (because, when in Rome... always make bad decisions).

'Actually, I think I'll take a rain-check,' Sam said, peering queasily at it.

Dean shrugged. 'All right. You know what, I will too.'

He must've drunk more than he'd thought, 'cause he was starting to feel the effects. Dean replaced the beers, and took out a frozen pizza. He attacked the tiny, crappy little oven in their kitchen, yanking the pizza out of its box and packaging, and ramming it home without reading the timing instructions. Sam noticed Dean was always extra-violent and resentful whenever he found himself in anything even vaguely-resembling a "domestic" situation, as if to prove to anyone who was secretly watching that he Was On No Account Gay, or a House-wife. Sam allowed himself a little smile at his brother's back, as Dean put some coffee on to boil – and _butchly_, too, damnit!

Across the city, another kind of dominance was being asserted.

Lenore couldn't run fast enough. She took great galloping strides, leaps which sent her flying over cars, dumpsters, even hapless _people, _threw her body through the air, up walls, covering ground, scaling the sides of buildings with more than a human's agility. It just wasn't enough. The vampires kept pace, on the roads and in the alleyways, hooting and hollering and throwing bottles. Anything they picked up. She was the quarry, the fox to their hounds, trying to outsmart and outwit even as her breath started to gripe and stitch in her side, blessing the frigid night air which cooled her burning limbs.

It was starting to rain.

Too fast, she leapt from one building, overshot and stumbled across the roof of the next, slick with water, caught her toe on the crest of the roof and felt herself falling, falling. Her knees hit slate, with a crunch, her hands slammed forwards, the edges cutting into her palms, as she slid inexorably down, at speed. She reached the edge and scrabbled for purchase, her weight snapped underneath the grasp of her flailing hand, snatching into the eaves, the shuddering gutter.

The scream of motorcycle brakes sounded down in the alley below, echoed by the leering laughter of the vampire owner, as he called out to signal her fall to the others. He and his wheels dribbled their way down the narrow space, in a growl of engine, after her. Looking, dazedly, up from him, Lenore heard the split before she saw it – a pin-thread of black, on the gutter she was hanging from, like cracked bamboo, spilling murky fluid over her aching hand. It gave way just as the others arrived on the mouth of the alley way, dropping her pitilessly down on top of them, more than two stories.

Lenore landed, awkwardly, on top of the first of them – Donovan, the fat, bald vampire. She almost broke her ankles as the two of them lurched sideways, he over-balancing on his bike at the force of her landing, thrown into the alley-wall. She kicked the next one, _her_ _friend,_ in the face, his head snapping back in a crunch of splintering fangs, flying out everywhere like heavy iced globules of spit as he staggered away. She fought off the next, and the next - wounding, not killing – but they just kept coming. Until finally, Donovan pushed his bike off himself, sending it sliding across the alley where it tripped her up, as tried to climb the wall again. She couldn't, it was slick with rainwater, just like the roof above.

A meaty, callused hand closed on her back of her shirt, half ripping at her hair, and Donovan tore her bodily from the wall, threw her across the alley where she hit the opposite wall with a snarl.

'You want to run with the meat,' he hissed right back. '_You can bleed like them.'_

He spat at her, and the others closed in.

It's not true what they say, you know.

About Vampires.

They _can_ feel pain.

As it happened, the Boys' stake-out didn't last long, both of them keeping vigil, either side of a plate full of pizza – sitting at the circular table which stood in the middle of the kitchen. From there, they could both see through the rain-streaked window, and down into the parking-lot. After a little while, a cab pulled up outside, and a familiar figure got out. Sam was standing by the window at the time, arms tucked under his pecs, into each armpit as he kept watch. His eyes widened and he pushed himself up with urgency.

Dean was sitting at the table, just chugging down his first Samuel Adams, and looked up as his brother spoke: 'Dean!' He got to his feet instantly, came to stand at the window too, his back to Sam. He leaned back and jerked the drapes aside, further, between his middle and fore-finger. Frowning, he watched her trot across the parking-lot, between the sparsely parked cars. Sam considered his profile, close-up, as Dean did so – he was looking tired, those grooves on his forehead, around his eyes, like water's marked passage over smooth-worn stone. Weary, as he always looked whenever they brushed on anything to with the Demon. Sam's eyes flickered low, in sadness.

'Got her.' Dean muttered, unaware of Sam's thoughts.

He swung away from the window and snatched up his leather jacket, from where it was lying on the dresser, shaking it into shape as he got ready to put it on.

'Dean,' Sam spoke, just as he had his hand on the door-handle, and he looked up in reply.

'Relax, Sam. I'm just gonna take a look.'

'And if she sees you?'

'Well, then,' that tight little hint of a smile, not enough to call him on, seemed to come into Dean's cheeks. 'I'm just gonna take a _closer_ look.'

He shot Sam a cocky smile, wrenched open the door, and disappeared into the rain...

Miles across town, the vampires finally tired of worrying their quarry, and left her, choking and spluttering, in the foot of that alleyway, clothes half torn, beaten to a tender all-over-body bruise. She was lost in that world of pain, again, head rolling from side to side, their murmured jibes and insults warping as they reached her ears, fluted and richly wobbling like dolphin song in a poisonous sea. She felt the parting-shot of disgusted, disgusting saliva hit her face, a final insult hurled at her, along with the rain which gushed from the broken guttering, above, powering onto her head with the falling rain.

They left her in a broken, moaning heap, shivering with fear and the agony cramping her beaten limbs, a white beacon of waxed but purpling skin, in the dark. Left her to hang by a tentative, plaintive life-thread, overbalancing into undeath or oblivion. Gunned their roaring bikes and rode off into the night, drops hitting them and whizzing past their dismissing helmeted ears. People she had known, lead, loved, turning on her this completely, this wholly, without a blink of an eye. But at least Eli wasn't there. Perhaps... But no. They were going back to him, surely, and he would smell her pain on them.

Back they were riding, even as she lay there, into a world of warmth and some semblance of love, and safety - of a sort. All she had was the rain.


	8. Chapter 18: Six String Serpent

**Chapter 18: Six String Serpent**

Gazing through her lowering, lowering eyelashes, heavy with rain, Lenore saw down the alleyway as the growl of an engine approached – something crawled into view, slow on its wheels. It was a trike, a huge, black trike. Not one she recognized, though, not one of the vampire's, and someone – who, she couldn't see, it was too much of an effort – was swinging themselves off it, in a swish of long coat. Whoever it was came to stand over her, so big they blocked out the rain which had been pattering on her face.

'You've... come to take me.' Lenore whispered, croaked, more to herself than to the stranger. No self-pity in it, just a statement of fact, a resignation – of and to her fate.

Lenore felt big, dry hands attach themselves, to her wrists, lift her effortlessly from the ground, and carry her away. A grown woman, not small, but not even a strain of muscle or quickening pulse did she feel. But she didn't feel safe, either, as she had done once before, in a similar situation – if anything, something inside, some deep instinct, made her gibber and moan in the stranger's embrace. It made her reach a weakened, quivering hand behind, to the suddenly apparent refuge of the blood-stained brick of the alleyway.

_Go to the night_, it said. _Sometimes the dark you're in is safer._

When Dean crept, cautiously, to the head of the staircase, _plinking_ with the hammer of raindrops, sheening across his leather jacket, he watched Morgan where she stood.

Judging by the spot of orange light, the lit end of her cigarette, she seemed to be ignoring the rain – or at least making a concerted effort to not give a fck about it. He hated to think what it must be doing to that little black dress she was wearing under the- actually, no, wait, _no he didn't_. She had paused where she was, by the bed of the Bronco, tilting her head to the sky to chug back mouthfuls from a big bottle of whiskey. Jameson, he thought – and the column of her throat worked like a thick dew-studded snake as she knocked it back, cigarette held away from her lips. The level of golden liquid inside was dropping, dropping – not a woman who had trouble with her licker, or at least not keeping down.

Morgan stopped gulping, lowered the bottle and wiped the back of her hand across her reddened lips, replacing her cigarette between them. She smacked her freed hand onto the back of the Bronco, and the trunk-lid popped up with a screech. Soprano to the impala's bass, almost like a sea serpent was fog-horn calling to her from the night, out of the rushing water. Morgan was rummaging around inside. Through the rain, Dean squinted and saw what it was she withdrew: a battered, old, black electric-guitar; a thump; with it, a little amp, yanked out of the bed and onto the asphalt. Morgan tucked the guitar under her arm, keeping the bottle and cigarette skillfully in her left hand, and picked the amp up in her other.

She extended one leg, surprisingly high, and kicked the Bronco's trunk lid down, shut, with a click. While she wove her way back to her room, she tossed her head like a black-maned lioness, to get the rain and her knotty-soaked tresses out of her eyes. Curiosity piqued, Dean bounced carefully down the staircase, after her, bandy jeans legs bending outwards as he slowed. He ducked into the much-needed shelter of the balcony, finally escaping the rain, and crept along to the slice of light which was Morgan's exposed room. Edging closer, and trying not to be seen, he saw through a sliver of the open door.

She was sitting on the edge of her bed – just within his field of vision – kicking off her shoes like a gypsy, dumping the amp on the floor, flicking out the lead from under her bare feet. She plugged in the guitar, taking another swig of James' from the hand which had a cigarette slotted between two fingers, like a sparkler. She was sitting with her knees spreading apart, as she pulled the guitar onto her lap, with her dress falling down in between, on the left, because of the slit. (Dean couldn't keep that look off his face, lips drawn together in a little appreciative rosebud, eyebrows climbing – he could imagine Sam's face, at him, had he been there). Morgan dropped the Jameson to the floor, freeing up her cig-hand a little, raked her fingers right through her moistened locks, to keep them off her face, and then dropped it to the strings.

She started to play, the music fading in from the silence – almost complete, but for that rustle of trickling rainwater, the vague sounds of the city – as she used one dexterous toe to crank up the volume dial on the machine. At first it had that warped, starry sound, as if there was something wrong with the amp, warming up (though Dean still thought he recognized the tune – Zeppelin, one of those American black covers...) but then Morgan cut in with the deeper bass, the gut-vibrating stuff. She was murmuring wordless nonsense notes in the back of her throat, the same one repeated – over and over – punctuated only by the static of the amp, or was that the whisper of the rain?

More complicated riffs, now, bigger, higher, more exuberant. She had that deep-down husky kinda voice – all balls and smoke, and heart – sexily slurring her words 'cause of the booze in her system, half-muttering them, but it suited. Biting her lip when she finished up a _pianissimo _note, making him breathe in a whistle through his. It was like the blues, Dean thought. Telling any sleepers who might've been lying nearby to go to Hell, before she dragged them down with her, hammering out the beat with her bare heels. One her snare, one her high-hat, her lungs a bellows on her bleeding fire.

Again, he peered through the crack of the door. Clearly, it seemed, Luke wasn't the only talent with a six-string – Morgan didn't even have a pick, she was just plucking out the chords with her long fingers, as if scramming the box. She was throwing her head back, with abandon, as she hit the bigger, rougher, rock-notes. She was swaying back and fore, head weaving as it fell, big liquid-black eyes closed, brows contorting, between strands of that rich black hair, lying like tendrils of spilled ink, left hand quivering mesmerizingly on the fret. Looking like Slash had a sister:

_Trying to save my soul tonight,_

_Nobody's fault but mine._

A pause, and then _slamming _her heels down as she started again in a throaty bellow:

_Devil he told me to roll._

Old harmonica, mouth-organ, cut in from somewhere, and he suddenly spotted that there was a cassette-player in there too – attached to the amp – providing her back-up, not that she needed it. Nature seemed to be providing its own pathetic fallacy on this gutsy screaming witchcraft, as the rain grew, and roared, and cloaked the building completely. Thunder was rumbling with it, far overhead, like that sea-serpent answering again – daring her to turn that goddamn fcking thing up to eleven. So this was how she let her hair down. Lost in it, utterly absorbed, it was exhausting just to watch. But most of all it was...

Bewitching...

Was that growl in his guts the reverberating guitar, or a hunger, or both? And a hunger for _what_? The Sam inside was rolling his eyes... But, standing there, sheltered from the howling rain, and a little from the cold (as he hunched inside his leather jacket) with the water sheeting off the edge of the balcony? The light of rare, infrequently-passing cars, flaring and shrinking, like glimmerings of surface-light, off the scales of deep-sea fish, darting by in the aqueous depths? Dean could almost imagine he was standing behind a mighty waterfall, listening to unseen birds sing and trill. Or, no, too bad ass for birds. Maybe mountain lions roaring in the distance. Hell, he _was _in the Rainbow Motel, after all – maybe fate was trying to tell him something.

The guitar was screaming, growing higher, more notes, coming faster and faster. Dean, not that he'd admit it, couldn't have moved for love nor money, he was too enthralled, swept up in it like the tide. Harder drumming of the heels. Glorious, frenetic... and finally, after what must, surely, have been several hours – of incessant, spellbinding sound – it stopped, in a final _Boom-Boom, _of bone on ground. Dean was using his Robert De Niro expression to himself, now – mouth drawn down at the corners, eyebrows raised, lips kinda puckered. Impressed, again, but not about to show it. Not even to the night.

Breathing heavily, through her nose, Morgan managed to pry her right hand from the strings – plucked her cigarette, miraculously still in place, from her left – and lifted it to her lips again. It occurred to Dean, the musical voyeur, that she had been deliberately keeping the smoke from herself, while she played, forcing herself to reach for that itch – waiting to be scratched. Keeping the music urgent, and primal. She was taking that first drag, cigarette butt burning citrus-bright from her lips, an ember in the gloomily lit room, as she ran her fingers through her hair. Eyes still closed, still breathing deep, like coming down from a serious high.

Thunder rolled.

A six.

Which was when Morgan opened her black, liquid-searing eyes, and saw him.

Busted.

Dean shied away from the door, too late, wincing. '_Damnit!'_

When he turned back, Morgan had abandoned the guitar, was standing right up close, on the other side, regarding him silently. She slid the door open wider, one arm up on the lintel, and extended her right hand towards him, offering it. Dean couldn't resist glancing around, up to no good, to check that there weren't any onlookers – like, maybe, 6-5 ones with wimpy-ass notions about not mixing business with pleasure, for example. Finding none, Dean withdrew his hand from his leather-jacket pocket- and the next thing he knew, he was shaking hands with the rug. Cheek squashed against the floor, burning with the friction, that damning arm wrenched up behind his back, by the wrist, beads biting into his skin, and a – presumably – a foot, pressed down between his shoulder blades.

Friggin' chick must've hooked his feet out from under him, got him in a hammerlock. Damn.

'Whoo,' Dean muttered, his voice muffled, from the floor. 'I don't normally go for this much foreplay, but-'

'Tell me, Dean,' Morgan interrupted, above him. 'To what do I owe the pleasure?'

'Well,' Dean breathed into the carpet, reflecting. 'That kinda depends. What make is your vibrator-' she wrenched on his arm- 'ah!-ah!- _alright_, _alright, alright_!'

Sht. What had his cover-story been? Oh, yeah. He didn't have one. Sht.

'Uh...'

'Is this-' Morgan began, suddenly, sounding both suspicious and horrified '-a _booty call​?'_

'Whaat?! No! ...Well, not in so many...' Dean hesitated. 'Okay... yes. Yes it is.'

Morgan sighed. 'Well at least you're honest.'

The pressure on his back disappeared, as did the hand holding his wrist, and Dean rolled onto his side, then his back, watching her swagger away, springing on the balls of her feet – like a boxer waiting to dance. Looking down her nose at him, where he lay, expression inscrutable. She retook her seat on the edge of the bed, forearms on her legs, sniffed, and reached down for the Jameson. Dean winced again as he rolled onto his side and pushed himself to his feet, with a hop-step, white teeth and crows-feet flashing at the ceiling as if to say "here's me, in a bitch of a jam, again".

By the time he turned around, on the spot, to see her, Morgan was chugging down the whiskey again. _Glug, glug, glug._

'Never seen a chick drink like that,' he said out loud, before he could stop himself.

'Stick around long enough, hun,' Morgan muttered. 'I'll show you it comin' back to haunt me.'

'That's... classy.'

'Hey,' Morgan shrugged. 'Don't hate me 'cause I'm perfect.'

_'Huh,' _Dean thought. '_I gotta remember that one.'_

'So, Dean, why the visit? Not that I'm not _utterly thrilled _to see you, y'understand.'

'Yeah,' Dean nodded. 'I was getting that vibe.'

'So...?'

Dean sucked in his breath, looking around. 'I'm... just a... huge Zeppelin fan.'

Morgan looked a little mollified, not much, but hard to tell with this chick. 'Really?'

Dean clenched his hand into a fist, pumped the air, confident he'd just talked himself into a corner he could, in fact, hold. 'Zeppelin Rules! What can I say? Jimmy Page – the greatest thief of American Black music there ever was.'

For a second he seriously thought he was in danger of meeting the girls again, but then Morgan's slow glare dissolved, and she snorted.

'Warae taig.'

'Huh?'

It sounded a little like "warranty", but with a 'g' thrown in for the hell of it.

'Warae taig,' Morgan repeated, curtly, looking at the floor. 'It's Welsh. Means "fair play"...'

'Welsh,' Dean rolled the word round in his mouth, trying it out. He could tell Morgan was a little drunk, or, hell, a _lot_, because of the way she totally failed to push him off the bed when he sat down casually beside her, hands in his pockets. Probably out of self-preservation.

'What is that?' he asked.

'It's a language, braniac.'

'I'd guessed, but I thought you and Luke-' he wavered over the name, now '-said you were from the UK?'

'We are, but there's more than one indigenous language in Britain, Dean. We got English, Welsh, Gaelic (Scottish and Irish) and Cornish.' She counted them off animatedly on her fingers, as her cigarette smoldered nearby. '_My _language is Welsh.'

'_Damn, just when I need a Geekboy_,' Dean thought, and immediately dismissed the notion of needing Sam's help with a woman.

'S'it a good one?' He asked, absolutely screwed for something interesting to say.

'Well, it predates _your _country by a few centuries,' Morgan shrugged. 'So...'

'Ouch,' Dean sucked in his breath through his teeth. 'Sensing a little hostility to the flag, here.' Looking at her sideways, like he would at Sammy, when he'd just cracked a joke he knew he wouldn't get.

Morgan spread her hands wide. 'I'm here, aren't I?'

'Yeah, well, so were Motörhead, and _they _liked it fine.'

'There you go then. I've got nothing against the USof... Reckon it's a _crackin_' idea, in principal.'

Morgan sat up straighter, so she could drink again, and Dean watched the spirit-level fall erratically. Dude, she was suckin' it down like prohibition was due a come-back. And how proud of him would Sammy've been for hearing that totally-clean comparison?

'You know what else is a good idea?' Dean remarked.

Morgan's un-suckered her lips. 'What?'

'_The Liver_.'

Morgan snorted. 'Who're you, my dad?'

Dean was about to make a comment, to the total contrary, when he glanced sideways and saw that tears were suddenly brimming in Morgan's eyes, shocking him out of his answer:

'Jesus...' he muttered, before he could stop himself.

In the same second he turned, where he sat, drawing out his hands Morgan leaped to her feet, obviously horrified and appalled with herself, shifting her tall frame on her feet, scrubbing the thumb her cigarette-bearing hand into the corners of her eyes, wiping the tears away. She sniffed, jaw tensing as she breathed out, exhaling hastily-needed smoke, and Dean stood up.

'Morgan?'

She flinched at that, the use of her name, took another step forwards, almost like she meant to run from the room, if she could. Instead, she paused in front of the window, rested the bottle of whiskey on the sill, where she tapped her hands on it – once, twice – tentatively. This was how you could tell Morgan Enfield was drunk. Usually, there'd be no sign, absolutely no sign, that anything was wrong inside. No obvious enough sign that anyone but Luke could've read it, anyway.

'Moon's lookin' big tonight,' she commented, the hunter's equivalent of "hey man, didya catch the game?"

Dean stood, walked over, twisting sideway and followed her gaze. Just above the storm, a vague lightening in the cloud shifted to reveal the moon, off to their right a little, in the West, traveling as night went on. As he did so, Dean remembered with an unpleasant bump that Sam had seen a full moon in his vision. How long to go? They didn't usually get a lunar month in advance, hell, barely even a heads-up if they were lucky. Luck? In his life? Oh, yeah, right. Sure. But... but here he was, standing with a smokin' hot chick again. Shoulder to shoulder again. Feeling his screwed up world slip away into simplicity. Not so for Morgan, though, apparently – the look on her beautiful face was troubled, and that was understating it.

'Jesus,' she muttered to herself. 'You must think I'm such a... bloody... _woman_.'

'Well, _yeah_,' Dean admitted, a little lost for words. 'Even with that... snot comin' out your nose.'

Morgan managed to laugh. 'Thanks for that.'

'No problem.' Dean shrugged, turned more fully on the spot, to look out of the window, with her. He let their conversation lapse into a comfortable silence, knowing from experience (with Sam), how friggin' annoying it could be to have someone pushing it when you just didn't feel like talking.

'So,' he began again, off hand, no pressure. 'What's up? Why'd you spring a leak?'

Morgan sighed, eyelashes flickering low.

'I was just... thinking about my dad, you know. And Luke. The whole messed-up Enfield Family, I suppose.'

Dean, still not looking at her, cocked his head as he leant his hands on the window-sill, smiling humorlessly. 'Preaching to the choir.'

'I don't think so,' Morgan murmured. 'Look at you and Sam. Thick as thieves. Probably crooked as thieves too, but that's not the point.'

Strange how much that statement gave him a glow, inside, such a tiny flame to fan, a small point to make, but... Oh, crap, here was the heavy stuff, the stuff he usually steered well clear of, for fear of Sam getting too cocky – the Big Brother's Pride.

'So?' Dean shrugged. 'Look at you and Luke. You seem pretty tight.' ('_O-ho, yeah, bullsht with the best of them, Winchester. You should get a friggin' medal._')

'It's not Luke I'm talking about,' Morgan growled in an ominous undertone, grim as the storm-clouds whipping at the window panes, full lip curling. She took another pull of James'.

Oh, no, that did it, now his curiosity was piqued. Again. Dean frowned, eyes sliding sideways, though he still wasn't looking at her.

'What, that other guy Luke mentioned? Uh... Jo... Jonah, right? Your big brother?'

Morgan's eyes slid sideways to _him_, dead and hard, but not deep on the inside.

'I've only got one brother.' She answered simply, not in a tone which suggested there was any room for argument, unless he wanted to loose something in trying.

'Why?' Dean asked. 'What's wrong with the other one?'

'_He's dead to me_,' Morgan growled again, voice heating up the passion of her feeling, before she could reign it in. The booze taking hold again. 'If not in actuality.' She finished, less violently.

'Why is that?' Dean asked, unable to _not_ look her in the eye, now, read the expression on her face. When she finally met his eyes, obviously hoping he wouldn't be looking at her when she was at him, the manifestation of emotion in them was... shocking. He could only compare to... who, who was she reminding him of? Oh... hell, yeah. Sammy, standing by the busted-up impala, in Bobby's place, spilling his guts and his soul. Desperately waiting for some sign, some tiny, pitiful little sign from _him_, that Everything Was Okay, that he wasn't serving himself up on a platter for nothing. Of course, he'd been in no condition to give him that, back then.

Dean was having trouble keeping his thoughts from his face, as he came back to the present, and found himself opposite Morgan. Morgan was that same Sammy sear in her eyes, like sitting on the table, crying, infected, trying to say goodbye in Oregon. "_You're gonna die, you're gonna die, you're gonna die, **can't let you die**_" Whatever Morgan saw looking back, maybe because it was so far removed from the Zippo glances she'd been used to, seemed to bolster something inside her. '_Good God'_, a little bit of herself, inside, thought in horror, trying to stop her blabbering gob. '_I **must **be drunk, to be even considering spilling my guts, telling **this **one. But I need... but, for once, I need someone to talk to. And Luke's not here, and I couldn't tell him, even if he was, so... fckit! The American Classic's going to have to do._'

'To explain that,' she began, in a husk of a voice, like singing again. 'I guess I'd have to tell you about the night... about the night my father died...'

Morgan & Dean were too wrapped up in their conversation to notice that a monster was loping, erratically, past their room, trailing blood as it went. In the distance, the sound a trike's engine growled and merged with the roar of the storm and the rain, fading, fading... The monster staggered and hobbled to the fire-escape steps, pulled itself up, inch by inch. Through haggard breaths, it managed to hoist itself along the balustrade, limp to the nearest room, and, with its last ounce of strength: knock.

Sam looked up at the noise on the door.

'_Can't be Dean_,' his brain immediately warned him. '_He has the keys... and the door's unlocked, he'd know to just come right in_.'

So Sam crept, cautiously, to the source of the noise, every muscle tensing as he prepared himself. He stretched out a hand, slowly, slowly, gripped the door-handle, and wrenched it open, to see:

'Lenore?! Jeez- what are you doing here?'

'Sam...'

Almost choking on her relief, Lenore collapsed, too tired to stay upright – and, to her surprise, she didn't hit the floor. Leaning hard against him, supported at an awkward angle, he helped her stagger forwards, on buckling knees.

'What the hell happened?' he asked breathlessly.

'The others...the other...vampires,' Lenore forced herself to say. 'Found me.'

Her head slumped back, as unconsciousness claimed her, and Sam lowered her to a chair, at the table.

When she next opened her eyes, she was propped up on a soft bed, and her cuts and bruises didn't hurt any more. Breathing laboredly, swallowing down a mouth full of blood, she twisted her neck, the hair splayed out on the pillows shimmering down at the movement, prickling at her cheek and shoulder. She took in her new surroundings.

Sam had pulled the chair up beside the bed, and had a big plastic box, with a two-sided lid, cracked open between his feet – which he was rummaging around inside. He brought up a roll of gauze, unrolling a length of it – fingers twirling with a smoothness born of practice. She realized there were already bands of it, around her arms – the worst-damaged, because she had wrapped them around herself – and surgical needle and ligatures laid out on a napkin on the nightstand. So gently done she hadn't even woken up.

Everything felt better, _much _better – improbably so. Lenore gazed around, caught sight of a bung of cotton, stained with... it couldn't be. But it was. She was struggling against the smell of it: Blood, charging up her nose like a raging bull, overwhelming her as easily sea waves a jetty in the midst of a swirling storm, watering her taste-buds. As strong, as urgent, as the thunder rumbling overhead, echoed in her growling stomach... and that black little vicious thing inside, flexing its claws. Lenore closed her eyes, breathing hard, forced it back, down, and felt it retreat – to her relief.

It was his blood, she knew that straight away, but why? The only reason she could think of... was that he'd used it to heal her. A little-known fact – very little-known, actually – that if dead man's blood harmed, live man's blood – living blood – healed. The whole reason vampires could regenerate, recover from lethal wounds. He couldn't have known that... but he'd still tried. God.

'Why did they attack you?' Sam asked, still concerned with the box at his feet, and Lenore tore her eyes from the darkness.

Oddly reminded of another chair, in another time. Another torturer. Sammy the rescuer – then, as now. Funny how history repeats itself.

'I don't know,' she answered, honestly. 'Just, because I was there. They wanted something to feed on, or-'

'Wow, wait a minute,' Sam cut in, alarmed. 'To feed? Your nest's attacking people now?'

Lenore heaved in a deep breath.

This was it, then. Everything she'd ever worked for, and here she was, betraying it.

'Yes.' She whispered. 'Yes. They've cast me out, because I refuse – because I still refuse, to hurt humans. They're out of my control, now... under someone else's.'

'Whose?'

'I don't know.'

They fell into silence again.

Lenore couldn't stop herself.

Sam jumped out of his skin as something brushed against his neck, ingrained habits putting him on edge before he could think about them.

Lenore almost withdrew her hand, hesitating – but, softly, almost as if physically asking permission, she did what she had wanted to, on impulse, and laid it flat against the side of his face, her pinkie slipping past the whiskers of his side-burn, behind his ear. Bewilderment and inquisitiveness warred on his face as Sam, frowning at first, let his eyes follow a path, past the swell of the bones in her hand, to her face. She had such an intense look in her eyes. Absolute scrutiny, as if she was drinking in every detail of his face. And he was suddenly struck by the realization that she wasn't a human being, that she could've been decades, _centuries_, older than him, and he'd never have known. She was this... this ethereal thing – but still another living creature. Or unliving.

'What?' he asked, uncomfortable with the silence, once broken. 'What is it?'

Lenore blinked, the spell broken, and let her hand fall.

'Nothing. I was just thinking. She must be proud.'

Sam swallowed, hurt and hope rushing through him before he could form the controlled reply:

'Who?'  
'Whoever you left behind. Whoever it is that... made you this way.'

Sam flushed, gripped by the paranoia that she somehow knew about Jess. But he snapped on that unaware, good-natured smile.

'What way is that?'

'Kind. When you have no reason to be.' Lenore frowned. 'Kind, and gentle.'

Perhaps thinking of his brother, several rooms away, and probably not engaged in talk right at that moment, Sam ducked his head, and the light of the bed-side lamp – which was almost all he had to see by – flowed over the dimples in his cheeks as he smiled to himself.

'Listen... No offense, Lenore, but: I think you may have... some kind of blinkered idea of who I am. I'm... I'm not some-' he laughed, almost bitterly '-I'm not some saint, or-'

'Show me some evidence to the contrary, and I'll believe you.' Lenore argued, pushing herself further upright. 'You should be flattered. It's not every day your kind manages to produce a good man-'

Sam sat back in his chair, staring. 'My kind? There is no "my kind". I'm just a person.'

Lenore frowned deeper. 'No. You're more than that-'

Sam felt like she was hitting too near the mark, or, that she somehow knew about what he was. So he got defensive.

'What?' Sam interrupted. 'Am I some kind of freak-show? Gather round, see the hunter with a conscience, is that it?'

'No.' He was more easily riled than she remembered. 'I mean, you help people-'

'SO you think because I helped you in the past, that I'm automatically gonna do it again?'

Sam pushed his chair back, closing up the box agitatedly and carrying it away. 'I don't know if you noticed, Lenore, but we're kind of at war right now. You can rely on my charity tonight, but that doesn't mean it's always gonna be there.'

'I don't need your charity,' Lenore retorted, getting angry herself. She swung her legs to the floor.

'Oh right,' Sam scoffed, accent thickening, that breathy laugh of his. 'Sure. You just came here-'

'And since when were you so defeatist?'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'You've changed. What happened to "people can be good if they choose to be"?'

He was half turned away from her now, as she stood up, hands hooked onto his hips, smiling to himself and shaking his head. He was thinking about Luke. The nicest guy you could hope to meet – albeit a little... unusual – and in a matter of days, he'd be driving a knife into his own sister's body. Who in hell had a chance of staying good, of being saved, if a guy like that could do a _thing _like that?

'Let's just say I learned a valuable lesson since then.' Sam replied, sadly.

'What lesson?'

'A lesson in life and death.'

'Oh, of course,' Lenore stood. 'I just _saved _your life. Of course it's none of my business.'

Sam snapped his head around, derisive but interested. 'What?'

'The vampires who beat me?' Lenore explained, stepping closer, hostile. 'What, you think that was just for fun...? They were trying to find out where _you _were, Sam.'

'And you didn't tell them?' almost disbelief, chin jutting, looking down at her.

'Notice,' she said, eyebrows raised coolly. 'You're _still _alive.'

An awkward silence, and Lenore, realizing she'd stepped aggressively close, folded her arms.

'So why did you come here?' Sam asked her quietly, shrewdly, eyes glazing in logic. 'Is it because you wanted to feel good about yourself? Feel like less of a monster, because you _saved _somebody?'

'Well, isn't that what _you _were doing when you fixed me up?'

Sam huffed – the breath blowing a strand of hair off her forehead – but she had him, there.

He shook his head, staring down at her, mock-disappointedly, with a mannerism he'd borrowed from Dean (though he didn't know it). The time to argue back came, and went, but neither of them moved...

He had to speak, because it was dawning on Sam that that same strange, overpowering feeling, of before, had come back: making him breathe harder, his heart pound painfully in his chest, making his blood tingle and rush downwards, his stomach lurch. He was, suddenly, acutely aware of the body only inches apart from his own, pneumatic with barely-contained anger, rejuvenated supernatural power. _He'd _done that.

'Alright,' Sam admitted, accent thickening with exertion. 'Maybe you're right.'

It occurred to him that vampires could, on some level, sense blood flow – and also that there was more than one definition of the term "man-eater." He shook his head, looking at her full-lipped mouth, before he could stop himself – without thinking.

Lenore looked up. 'Sam?'

'What?' he whispered.

'Why do you think you're a monster?'

'Because... I... I'm going to hell.' He whispered, half to himself.

She was _so close_.

'Perhaps,' Lenore murmured, simply, nodding, her voice an eloquent feminine lilt. 'Perhaps I am, too.'

She was looking at his mouth, too, now. Eve to his Adam.

'But not yet.'

And what happened next might've been heavenly, and it might've been biblical in a sense, but it sure as hell wasn't holy...


End file.
